Back to the Start
by Slytherstein
Summary: It was never a happy tale, but there had been a time when there was hope. That hope died with Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Illustrating the events which led to Robert's Rebellion, it is a story of love and prophecies, of madness and pain, of friendship and tragedy. "Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard. Take me back to the start."
1. First Impressions

**Back to the Start**

 **Author:** Slytherstein and Lehrain

 **Rating:** T (violence, language, strongly suggestive material)

 **Spoilers:** All

 **Genre:** Tragedy/Friendship

 **Main Character(s):** Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark

 **Secondary Character(s** ): Barristan Selmy, Ned Stark, Oswell Whent, Jaime Lannister and Ashara Dayne

 **Main Ship(s):** RhaegarxLyanna and RhaegarxElia

 **Secondary Ship(s):** BrandonxAshara, BarristanxAshara, RobertxLyanna, BrandonxCatelyn, PetyrxCatelyn and HowlandxLyanna

 **Summary:** It was never a happy tale, but there had been a time when there was hope. That hope died with Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Illustrating the events which led to Robert's Rebellion, it is a story of love and prophecies, of madness and pain, of friendship and tragedy. "Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard. Take me back to the start."

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own any of the characters; they belong to George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_ and the writers of _Game of Thrones_.

 **A/N:** This is a collaborated fic, written by myself and my sister, Lehrain. Each chapter is told from a designated character's POV (some will switch between multiple characters' POVs), which is specified beforehand.

* * *

Back to the Start

Chapter I

"First Impressions"

…

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

It was not the first time his eyes had beheld the Red Keep, but there was something distinctly different about staring up at it now than the last time he had seen that formidable fortress.

The ancient seat of House Targaryen. If legend was to be believed, it was said that King Maegor I had taken the lives of every man who had worked on the construction of the keep, to preserve the castle's many secrets. Rumor had it there was a labyrinth of hidden passageways not only beneath the castle, but within its very walls. It was this very same tale of Maegor the Cruel which had ignited so many grand, elaborate tales of how the Red Keep had earned its foreboding name in the first place. In truth, it was named the Red Keep because the stone from which the fortress had been built was just that: red. It was, quite literally, a _red_ keep.

Admittedly, it was a rather uninteresting and anticlimactic reason, just as the true reason behind most things seemed to be. It was hard to fault so many for wanting to make it a more compelling story than it actually was. For that matter, making a story out of it at all, considering the truth didn't even make for much of a _story_ , in the first place.

Whatever the reason, there it stood. Aptly named. It was impossible to miss, and everyone was gifted a fine, clear view of it, throughout the entire, slow approach toward the castle, and from any point in the surrounding city of King's Landing. It was not a welcoming place. It never had been, and nor did it seem it had ever been meant to be. It was meant to stand as a vivid, unmistakable testament of yet another reminder of the sheer power of the royal House. The power of the Targaryens.

He could hardly help the ironic smile that formed at the corner of his mouth, at the mere thought of this. Rather than allowing the true force of their power to speak for itself, they somehow felt a need to remind _everyone_ of it, _every_ opportunity they could find. And if they couldn't seem to _find_ an opportunity, they would _make_ one.

Ser Arthur Dayne lowered his eyes then, to glance aside toward the guard who had been escorting him, and he offered a single, subtle inclination of his head. Without further ado, he proceeded forward, inside the high walls of the Red Keep.

He inhaled a sudden breath of excitement. He had felt the anticipation of this moment gradually building up his entire journey, from the moment he had departed from Starfall. And it only seemed to stand to reason. He was far closer to achieving his life's secondary ambition than he ever had been before—it wouldn't make much sense for it _not_ to excite him, to some degree. Not that this ambition could ever truly compare to the first—the great of honor of wielding his House's ancestral sword _Dawn_ , and earning the title _Sword of the Morning_ , a feat which he had already accomplished—but it did hold a fair amount of importance to him, in its own right.

After all, it gave the rest of his life, moving forward, a specific direction, and a purpose _for_ that first accomplishment. He would devote that very same sword he had dreamt of wielding from the first moment he could remember dreaming of anything to the highest purpose there was: to protect. Specifically, to protecting the realm.

Not that he had been initiated into the order of the Kingsguard just yet. There was a very strict stipulation, that they only have seven members at any given time, and since there did not seem to be any vacancy currently (it was, after all, a position that was sworn for life), he would have to make do with the next best thing. A commission had been granted to him, to train under Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, until such time when a position _became_ vacant.

That is, of course, if he managed to maintain King Aerys II's favor in that time.

This was, more or less, a trial period. He had been in contact with the Lord Commander due in no small part to a friend of his family's House, and a current member of the Kingsguard himself, Prince Lewyn Martell. Fortunately, Arthur's reputation, and the reputation that his title _Sword of the Morning_ itself held, preceded him, and Ser Gerold had taken his proposal to the king. King Aerys had accepted the proposal, he had even relayed his excitement in meeting him face-to-face, and now, with the stage properly set for him, the rest lay in Arthur's hands.

He was first led to a small room, in one of the guard towers, which his escort informed him would be his residence for the foreseeable future. He took a moment to store what few belongings he had taken with him in this new room, with the exception of _Dawn_ —which he would be much remiss to ever let out of his sight—before the guard led him only a short distance more, to the White Sword Tower. The residence of the Kingsguard itself.

When he first entered, he was immediately greeted by a well-seasoned knight. Which was, of course, nothing more than a polite way of describing the wrinkled figure before him. His back was slouched, his thin hair had turned entirely white, and deep lines seemed to etch every inch of his face. He was seated at a small table, which stood against the wall, and at the sound of their approach, his attention was quickly redirected to the guard at Arthur's side.

"Entan!" the elderly man exclaimed with a smile, and in a voice, though distinctly weary with age, was more excited than the younger knight had anticipated. "I didn't know you were the one on duty today. I would have accompanied you."

"Probably better that you didn't," the guard stated, with a returning smile of his own. "We made better time, this way."

"Yes," the older man agreed, a playful gleam in his eyes, "my presence is _far_ too distracting." He sent a wink his way, before his gaze shifted, to the unfamiliar face of the Dayne, the same mischievous glint present in his brown eyes. "Speaking of _distractions_ , who is this handsome new face? No, wait. I think I already know. There's only one person who would be up here, and we've been expecting him for days."

"Ser Harlan, this is Ser Arthur Dayne," the guard who had been addressed as Entan informed the whimsical, old knight. He then turned to Arthur and made a single gesture to the White Cloak, "This is Ser Harlan Grandison."

The younger knight had made it his task to be familiar with as many accounts as he could gather of all current and past members of the Kingsguard, and he quickly recognized the name. House Grandison was in the Stormlands, and they were renowned for their loyalty to House Targaryen. Of more interesting note, though, Ser Harlan was the longest standing member of the current Kingsguard, even surpassing the _White Bull_ himself. The passing thought that this man might be the very individual Arthur was here to replace was not lost on the Dornishman.

"Ser Harlan," Arthur awarded him an easy smile, as he extended his hand in greeting. "It's an honor."

The old man accepted his hand, and then rested his other, leathery palm over their clasped hands. "Oh, no. The honor is all mine. _The_ _Sword of the Morning_ …I was starting to think I would die before I met one in my time."

"Well," here, the Dayne allowed himself a smirk, "I'm more than happy to prove you wrong."

The Kingsguard member appraised him, his eyes scanning him up and down, and his smile turned impossibly coyer. "Not as happy as I am. The title, the looks, _and_ the personality? You, ser, have it all. Any woman would be lucky to have you. What are you doing _here_?"

At this, Arthur arched a single brow. This certainly was not a line of questioning that he had been expecting, nor was Ser Harlan proving to be much of what he had expected, either. Certainly not the image of the aged Kingsguard member that his mind had conjured.

"I should think you, of all people, would understand what someone might be doing here," the younger knight returned. "Unless you have such a low opinion of your fellow Brothers, and you mean to imply only the dull or unattractive have to settle for this position. Which can't be true, of course, because it seems _you_ somehow found your way here."

A good-natured laugh escaped the elderly man's cracked lips. "You're very observant. I _am_ currently the most attractive of my Brothers."

"I see. Is _that_ why you want to deter me from joining? You're interested in keeping that position?"

"Well, unlike _you_ ," Ser Harlan emphasized pointedly, "I don't have another title to fall back on."

"That _is_ a shame," Arthur allowed, feigning a sympathetic look. "I can't even imagine what that must be like."

"You're lucky," the other man stated, but the next moment, his countenance shifted. For the first time since he had entered the tower, Arthur beheld a serious expression on the old knight's face. "Now, that's enough of that. We don't want to keep Ser Gerold waiting any longer. It'd be a shame if he was grumpy on your first day."

"No, that wouldn't do," Arthur agreed.

"That'll be all, Entan," Ser Harlan waved the guard away, and he left their presence with a respectful bow.

The old knight led _the Sword of the Morning_ past the entrance, until they came to a large door, which Ser Harlan pushed open with relative ease. They stepped into a circular, white room, where two men stood over a large, white table. They seemed to be peering over a number of maps which had been strewn out on the table before them. Arthur immediately placed this as the Round Room, identifying it from descriptions he had read of the central meeting place for the order. He easily recognized one of the men at the far end of the room, Prince Lewyn of House Martell. He was left to assume the other must be the Lord Commander.

The knight beside him cleared his throat, to grab their attention, effectively cutting Ser Gerold off mid-sentence, and both pairs of eyes fell on the two newcomers.

"Now that I have your attention," Ser Harlan began, the smile having returned to his wrinkled face, "I have something to say."

"Very well," the Lord Commander, commonly referred to as the _White Bull_ , responded in a dry tone. "What do you have to say?"

" _This_ ," the older knight held his hand out and gestured to Arthur, "is _the Sword of the Morning_."

"Is it?" Ser Gerold drawled, arching a brow at his subordinate. "I had no idea we were expecting anyone. It isn't as though I've been in frequent contact with him for the past few months."

"And it isn't as though _I_ have any idea how long it takes to travel from Dorne to here," Prince Lewyn chimed in, his tone matching the Lord Commander's sardonic one. "And it also isn't as though there's any way we can prove that _this_ ," the Prince then copied Ser Harlan's earlier gesture toward his fellow Dornishman, "is _the Sword of the Morning_."

"No, certainly not," his commanding officer agreed. "There's no physical proof that _anyone_ is _the Sword of the Morning_." With a single, dismissive wave of his hand, the Lord Commander stated, "We have no business with this man."

"We have more important things to attend to," the Martell informed the older White Cloak, and with that final statement, he and Ser Gerold returned their attention to the maps laid out on the table.

Arthur could not quite seem to decide if he felt more amused or surprised at their reaction to Ser Harlan. Not to say that this was atypical behavior from Prince Lewyn, but given the context, and their present environment, he _had_ been expecting a certain shift in his demeanor. It would appear he had been wrong to expect anything less. And as unexpected as Ser Harlan's lighthearted behavior had been, it was nothing compared to witnessing a humorous reaction from Ser Gerold Hightower himself. It was a starkly different atmosphere from the serious, formal tone he had grown accustomed to receiving in his correspondence with the Lord Commander.

As his piercing blue eyes shifted, to rest on the elderly knight beside him, he wondered if every member of the Kingsguard reacted to Ser Harlan and his obvious antics in this way.

"Oh, stop pretending," the seasoned knight chided. "I know better than to fall for your games."

"Clearly, you don't know much, otherwise you would have realized this isn't a game," Ser Gerold returned, his tone disinterested and growing bored. "Don't make me repeat myself."

As he said this, Prince Lewyn cracked a smile, though he kept his eyes glued fervently to the papers in front of them.

"Ser Gerold!" the older man sounded genuinely flustered. "You personally invited this man, and now you're giving a very poor first impression."

"It seems I _do_ have to repeat myself," the Lord Commander lifted his eyes from their fixed position to rest a glower on his fellow White Cloak. "I have no business with _this man_."

"I don't understand what I did wrong," Ser Harlan's gaze fell to the ground, and he shook his head back and forth. "Why are you so angry with me?"

"Make me repeat myself once more, and I might _actually_ be angry with you," the _White Bull_ drawled.

Visibly affronted, Ser Harlan snapped, "Now, you're insulting me. I think it's about time I left. Your _other business_ is _clearly_ more important than _the Sword of the Morning_." Turning toward the door they had just come through, the old, offended knight tapped Arthur on the shoulder as he urged, "Come on, Arthur."

"Arthur?" Ser Gerold's tone took an immediate shift.

"Did you say _Arthur_?" Prince Lewyn finally lifted his dark eyes from the pages, feigned recognition taking hold of his expression. "Arthur _Dayne_?"

"Yes, we've been expecting an Arthur Dayne," the Lord Commander stated matter-of-factly, walking around the table and approaching them. "I've been in frequent contact with him for the past few months, now."

"I see it _now_ ," the Prince gave an easy nod of his head, as he followed Ser Gerold to stand in front of the pair. "I know Arthur, from Dorne. How's your sister?"

"She's well," Arthur replied, his tone conversational, though he had to fight a smile on behalf of his flabbergasted new companion. "Ashara and your niece both asked me to send you their best, before I left."

"That was very considerate of them," the Dornishman said fondly. A suggestive smile pulled at the corner of his mouth the next moment, however, and he leaned closer to Arthur as his tone dropped. "From what my nephew tells me, your sister grows more beautiful by the day. He says she's really come into herself."

There was a distinct tension Arthur could feel settling over himself at the implications Prince Lewyn was making. There was no question which nephew he was referring to, and Oberyn Martell was certainly not the first man to set ravenous eyes on his sister, nor did it seem likely that he would be the last. Ashara Dayne _had_ grown into a beautiful young woman, there was no denying that fact. Or the fact that her number of suitors was growing beyond count. From the look in those roguish, dark eyes, Prince Lewyn had clearly said it purposefully, to get a rise out of him. And while he hated to admit to it, particularly in this current situation, there _was_ little else that could unsettle him quite like the matter of his younger sister.

His jaw tight, the Dayne responded only, "That doesn't surprise me."

"Lewyn-"

"I _knew_ you were playing!" Ser Harlan cut off his Lord Commander before he could finish chastising the Dornishman. The aged knight had eagerly taken it upon himself to break the tension, and the pointed look he was casting Arthur's way was not lost on the younger man. "No more games, though. I think Arthur would appreciate a tour of the Tower."

"Yes," Ser Gerold agreed simply. "I'm sure that he would. And we can make the rest of the introductions, as well. Unfortunately, Ser Jonothor's introduction will have to wait, but _someone_ has to guard the king."

The Lord Commander then took it upon himself to show Arthur around the White Sword Tower—the rest of the first floor, which included the kitchens where, he explained, the squires would prepare their meals for them; the undercroft; and the sleeping cells above. The way he spoke of it, and to the young knight, he made it sound as though there was little question that the famed _Sword of the Morning_ would make Kingsguard. That it was less a matter of _if_ , but _when_. What little reassurance the aspiring White Cloak needed, Ser Gerold Hightower readily provided.

Arthur quickly observed that the three he had met were the only three in the Tower, and when they had finished walking the expanse of the building, the Lord Commander informed him that the others were all out training in the courtyard. Prince Lewyn accompanied them, but Ser Harlan insisted that he needed to stay inside and eat. In what was quickly becoming his typical coy manner, he asked Arthur to join him—somehow, he had overlooked the fact that they were only headed outside in the first place _because_ of Arthur. When the younger knight was obliged to refuse, Ser Harlan grumbled about eating alone.

When they approached the courtyard, Arthur's assessing gaze quickly made note of four men. It was not the two sparring who first caught his attention, nor the middle-aged knight who rested his hand casually on the sword at his hip, who appeared to be overseeing the pair of them. Rather, it was the man who was seated under a tree, with a book resting open in front of him. His eyes seemed transfixed to the pages. If the distinctive violet eyes did not give his identity away, that long, pale blond hair, which was almost white, certainly did. He was a Targaryen. And while he appeared far too young, to be King Aerys himself, his perceived age placed him perfectly as the king's only son and heir, the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. What he was doing out here pouring over a book when Ser Gerold had clearly informed him that these men were supposed to be training, however, was lost on the young knight.

Arthur soon learned that the two men sparring were Ser Oswell Whent, of Harrenhal, and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, from the Crownlands. That left the man overseeing them to be none other than Ser Barristan Selmy. Arthur had heard many tales of Ser Barristan—how he had earned the title _Barristan the Bold_ when he had jousted in his first tournament at the age of ten, how he had been knighted at the age of sixteen, and how, only a few years later, after a successful career as a knight both on the battlefield and in multiple tournaments, he had been inducted as a member of the Kingsguard by King Jaehaerys II. It was rumored that his skill with a blade surpassed even that of the _White Bull_ himself. It was a rumor which _the Sword of the Morning_ was eager to put to the test.

Only Ser Barristan greeted him, as the others remained engrossed in their previous activities. Arthur accepted his hand with a cordial smile. When his eyes shifted once more, to the prince under the tree, Ser Gerold seemed to notice and offered a brief explanation.

"Prince Rhaegar," he informed him, confirming his previous deduction. "Ser Barristan is overseeing his training today, in my stead."

"In your stead?" Arthur arched a single, inquisitive brow.

It seemed reasonable that the master-at-arms would oversee the prince's training—although, the Dayne supposed, since he _was_ the prince, special privileges, such as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard personally overseeing his training, were not all that unusual.

"Yes," Ser Gerold returned. "A few years ago, he requested that he become my squire. Far be it from me to refuse such a request from My Prince. However, on days I'm otherwise engaged, I often have a senior member of our order or Ser Willem see to his training."

Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms for the king. He was also the older brother of Ser Jonothor Darry, the seventh and final member of the Kingsguard, who the Lord Commander had informed him was currently on guard duty for King Aerys.

As the knight continued his appraisal of the prince, he could not help the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind, which questioned this notion of " _training_ " that the crown prince was undergoing. What sort of training was it, exactly, that required he spend all this time lounging? His eyes had not left his book _once_.

It was not long before a young, wide-eyed messenger approached them, and he whispered something aside to the Lord Commander. Ser Gerold appeared visibly disgruntled by whatever information had been relayed, and he informed Arthur that any further introductions would have to wait. He gave a brief farewell to both him and Ser Barristan, before taking his leave, and Prince Lewyn went with him—though not before the Dornishman gave Arthur one final clap on the back, with a fleeting smile. The young knight was left standing alone beside Ser _Barristan_ _the Bold_.

Ser Barristan was the first to speak.

"When the Lord Commander first told us of your coming, I didn't know what to expect," his words flowed out in a respectful tone, as he appraised the younger man with a gentle smile. "Prince Lewyn shared a few tales, but it's not the same as meeting _the_ _Sword of the Morning_ in person." A glimmer of admiration shone in his dark eyes, as he told him, "It's truly an honor."

"The honor's all mine," Arthur stated. "I've heard more than a few tales of _Barristan the Bold_." His stare shifted, to the sword at the older knight's side, before he returned his piercing gaze to meet Ser Barristan's. "Are you as good with that sword as they say?"

"That depends on what they're saying about me these days," Ser Barristan gave a small chuckle under his breath. He allowed a brief pause, before adding, "I may even be better."

" _Better_?" here, Arthur arched a brow in response to the older knight's boast. He genuinely hoped the famed White Cloak would live up to his reputation. "I would very much like to see that."

"And _I_ would very much like to see the wielder of _Dawn_ in action," Ser Barristan returned. "I would recommend a spar between us, but it may have to wait for another time when I'm not instructing. In the meantime, however, you are free to use the training yard as you wish."

The Dornishman awarded him a nod in gratitude, but even as he did so, he once again found his stare falling upon the reclining Targaryen prince.

"Your instruction," he began, purposefully maintaining a neutral tone as he addressed the man, "you _are_ referring to your instruction of the prince, correct?"

"That is correct," the White Cloak replied, before gesturing to the two men who were still sparring in the center of the courtyard, "and I am also overseeing the training of both Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne today. They asked that I assess their techniques while the prince rests."

At that, Arthur could feel an edge of cynicism seeping into his voice as he questioned, "And how long, exactly, has Prince Rhaegar been resting?"

"A little over half an hour, I would say," Ser Barristan responded easily, taking little notice of Arthur's implication.

"I see," the younger knight returned, his blue stare now locked pointedly on their prince.

The Targaryen's fair complexion seemed peaceful and at ease, as his eyes perused the words on his page. If he truly had been training not but a half hour beforehand, he must have barely broken a sweat. Was this the sort of special treatment _all_ royalty was afforded? How could _anyone_ rely on their future king in the field of battle—if, in fact, it ever came to that one day—if he was allowed to sit back and relax for long stretches of time, in between what he could only assume were weak, negligent attempts at training, focused more on catering to the prince than actually teaching him anything of use?

"And would you say this is relatively common?" Arthur continued his line of questioning. "These breaks of his? Is this actually conducive to his training, in any way?"

"It's difficult to be wholly receptive to any training when you're pushed to the point of exhaustion," Ser Barristan explained matter-of-factly. "These breaks are in place so that he can return to his instruction, refreshed and fully aware."

"Why?" Arthur's gaze now shot back to the older knight at his side, as he arched a single brow at him, and his reasoning. "When faced with a real fight, he won't have that luxury. Why waste time training him for a situation that could never realistically occur? He won't be able to walk away and take a break, when his life is being threatened. He'll be pushed _past_ the point of exhaustion—and he'll need to be able to cope with that, to learn to be aware despite whatever mental or physical state he might find himself in."

He was keenly aware of the fact that there were now several pairs of eyes on him, the sound of steel in the yard had halted, and he realized his voice might have risen more than he had intended. He had no desire to disrespect the veteran knight, but he _was_ very firm in his own stance on this matter, and if there was a chance that voicing his opinion might actually make a difference, he was determined to do just that. Even so, he should have put forth more effort, in keeping his tone in check.

From the corner of his eye, he noted that even the prince had finally lifted his gaze from that book of his, and he was currently rising to his feet. He traded his book for his sword, and as he approached the knights, Arthur felt a sudden wave of apprehension. It was one thing, to question Ser Barristan's training methods to the knight, who seemed more or less willing to debate his own side of the issue, but it was quite another, to suggest the Targaryen prince was taking advantage of his position, even slacking in his training, in front of the prince himself. That had been rather ill-advised. The fact of the matter was, Rhaegar Targaryen _was_ royalty, and he had the power to take away any man's life he desired with a single word. If he felt insulted, it did not matter if Arthur Dayne was _the Sword of the Morning_ or a baker from Flea Bottom—it could very well all be the same to him.

The prince came to a stop directly in front of them, his dark, violet eyes trained pointedly on the unfamiliar knight, as he assessed him. When his gaze fell, to the sword at Arthur's side, recognition immediately seemed to appear behind his intent stare, and he then returned it to rest on the other man's face once more.

Despite the opinion he was quickly forming of the Targaryen, Arthur bowed his head as a sign of respect to the prince. Before Prince Rhaegar had a chance to speak, however, Ser Barristan intervened.

"My Prince," he began, his tone one of concern, although Arthur suspected it was not on his behalf, based on that gentle look in his eyes that was now directed at the prince. "Ser Arthur meant no offense to you. He was merely offering a different perspective."

"There's no need to concern yourself over my well-being, Ser Barristan. I'm not offended," the dragon prince assured him, his voice deep, but with a soft edge to it as he spoke to the older knight. Not a moment later, he cast his violet eyes on Arthur once more, and his tone grew harsher, "However, it is not your place to question his decisions so openly. _The Sword of the Morning_ is a hard-earned title that speaks for itself, but that does not privilege you to showing disrespect."

The prince was in the right. Not that it had anything to do with the title he had earned, it merely came down to the fact that he wholly disagreed with Ser Barristan's methods, but it was not difficult to see how the prince, and perhaps even Ser Barristan, were perceiving him. Young, arrogant, disrespectful, and with a certain lack of tact, it appeared. He was not proud of the fact that he had let his own frustration get the better of him, because, in truth, he would not have been disagreeing openly at all, and it would have remained a private conversation between himself and Ser Barristan, as intended, had he kept his tone in check. He was rather disappointed that he had put himself in a position to be chastised by someone who would rather spend his time catching the breeze in his pretty silver hair than devoting himself to any proper instruction by the legend that was _Barristan the Bold_.

"No," Arthur returned simply, again offering a respectful bow of his head to the Targaryen. "It does not. I meant no disrespect, My Prince, and I apologize for any that I have shown. To both you and Ser Barristan."

"I appreciate your apology, Ser Arthur, but it isn't necessary," Prince Rhaegar told him. "So long as you treat Ser Barristan with the proper respect in the future, I won't say another word about it."

"Of course, My Prince."

With that, Ser Barristan took it upon himself to turn the conversation. "I'm sorry if this interrupted your reading, Prince Rhaegar. Do you require more rest?"

It was as though everything Arthur had said was entirely lost on the man. In the course of that one, single question, he wondered if it perhaps had nothing to do with catering to the prince's requests, but, rather, what Ser Barristan perceived as his prince's needs. The pupil was, after all, only as good as his mentor. He was surprising himself with how strongly he felt himself disagreeing with the esteemed member of the Kingsguard who he perhaps respected most of all.

"No, I've had more than enough," the prince told his knight. "Let's pick up where we left off."

"That's an excellent suggestion!" a new voice chimed in, and Arthur glanced to the side, where he observed Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne had finally deemed it harmless to approach. The speaker was Ser Oswell, and he was giving his sword a quick spin in anticipation.

"Do you want one of us to practice with you?" Ser Gwayne proposed, noticeably flexing his muscles as he stretched his arms over his head.

They were both covered in sweat and grime, both of their bare chests exposed, although Ser Oswell had a cloth wrapped around his neck, which he dabbed at his forehead from time to time. They both seemed eager to continue training—which had clearly been put on hold momentarily, so they could overhear what their prince had to say to _the Sword of the Morning_ —and Arthur was curious to see how they fared against Prince Rhaegar. Did either of them share Ser Barristan's approach?

"Only if you don't start fighting over who gets to spar first," the prince quipped.

Although, as it happened, not a moment later, the prince's joke was hardly a joke at all. The two White Cloaks exchanged an assessing, challenging look with one another, and almost simultaneously, they each offered themselves to fight Prince Rhaegar first. They gave various reasons why the other was more inadequate, and by the end of it, Ser Barristan was facing off against the prince, having informed both of his younger Brothers that he would select the prince's next opponent himself.

Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne stepped to the side, both visibly dismayed, but as they stood beside Arthur Dayne, the immediate shift in their attention was not lost on the knight, nor was the challenging look that leapt to both of their expressions. It was not so dissimilar from the look they had exchanged with one another, although it was now mixed with a certain curiosity as they analyzed him.

"Are _you_ going to practice, Ser Arthur?" Ser Gwayne questioned. He could feel the man's eyes taking his measure.

Although he was more interested in the opportunity to watch Ser Barristan Selmy in action, Arthur allowed his gaze to wander briefly, to rest on the knights beside him, and he afforded them an easy, relaxed smile. "Perhaps," he said simply. "Are you volunteering to fight me, if I do?"

"I wouldn't ask, if I wasn't," Ser Gwayne returned with a haughty air to his tone.

"And how am I to know that?" the Dayne countered, his tone casual. "Perhaps you're the sort who is more interested in watching than fighting. Or, perhaps, you would rather have an opportunity to first analyze and observe your opponent, before recklessly jumping into a fight with him."

"Ha!" Ser Oswell released a laugh, clapping his fellow White Cloak on the back at this suggestion. "There's no one more readily willing to take a reckless leap than Gwayne, here."

"That's quite enough!" Ser Gwayne snapped at the lighthearted fellow, rolling his eyes. "What I do is not reckless. Recklessness implies a lack of skill and thought. I thought that I could observe _while_ I fight."

"An interesting notion," Arthur replied, while making a mental note of just how thoughtless it was, to turn down a freely offered opportunity to observe an opponent _before_ a fight. As far as he was concerned, that _did_ seem fairly reckless. "I suppose it is true, that we aren't often presented an opportunity to observe _beforehand_ , after all, and so learning to think on your feet is an important skill worth honing."

"I agree with you there, ser," the haughty knight gave a decisive nod of his head. "I always think on my feet."

"Personally, I do some of _my_ best thinking on my back," Ser Oswell inserted. "My thoughts run rampant as soon as I lay my head on my pillow."

Ser Gwayne awarded him an incredulous look, "How do you get any sleep?"

"With great difficulty," his fellow White Cloak informed him, with a slow, morose shake of his head. "I sleep best when I have some sort of… _distraction_ ," and at the last word, his tone took a suggestive turn, and he wiggled his brows.

Ser Gwayne gave a returning, suggestive nod, a smug smirk taking form at the corner of his mouth. As if suddenly remembering the previous conversation, however, he cast a more serious expression toward Arthur, his eyes narrowed slightly.

"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out. "Are you going to fight or not?"

"I did say _perhaps_ ," Arthur reminded him offhandedly.

Ser Gwayne seemed less than impressed with this answer, but, while Arthur had no interest in turning down his challenge, his attention had been captured by a far more pressing issue that was returning to the forefront of his mind, after he had shifted his gaze back to the pair in the courtyard.

"Is that _always_ how Ser Barristan trains him?" he questioned, gesturing in their direction with a slight tilt of his head.

Following his line of sight, Ser Oswell cracked a smile, but he gave little more than a carefree shrug of his shoulders. "More or less," he informed the Dornishman. "I'm not sure Rhaegar could keep up, if Barristan used his full force, so he prefers to match his level when they're training."

Neither of them appeared the least bit concerned. And Arthur found himself baffled by this. How was _anyone_ expected to continue improving, if they were never challenged? Admittedly, the prince appeared to have far more promise than he might have expected, given the state in which he had first beheld him, but this only served to frustrate him all the more. There was so much more potential there, so much more than the prince was applying. And yet, it was obvious, from the utter lack of strain in any of Ser Barristan's movements, and from the way he swung his sword, that he was holding back. The prince's technique was well formed, but beyond that, he had so much more to learn.

Before long, Ser Barristan called on Ser Oswell to face the prince, and what began as a promising shift only left _the Sword of the Morning_ feeling more disappointed than before. Both the prince and knight were smiling throughout the entire course of their match, and while there was nothing wrong with enjoying oneself while training, Ser Oswell did not appear to be taking it seriously in the slightest. In between strikes, he would throw in a joke, a laugh, or some absurd, misplaced feint. By the end of it, Prince Rhaegar was rolling his eyes at the White Cloak, and Ser Oswell was ushering Ser Gwayne to take his place.

When even the haughty, boastful knight withheld releasing his full potential against the prince, Arthur found he could no longer hold his tongue.

"Ser Barristan," he addressed the middle-aged knight, though he purposefully kept a low, even tone. "Forgive me, but…how does it benefit the prince, when _none_ of you are even offering him a real challenge? Every one of you has been holding back."

Ser Barristan appeared unfazed by the reemergence of Arthur's questioning, and he wore a confident expression as he explained, "We're holding back for his sake, Ser Arthur. I don't want to overwhelm the prince." There was an obvious fondness in his eyes, as he watched the young prince. "As he steadily improves, we adjust our approach to meet his level. If he asked for more of a challenge, I am willing to provide."

"And yet, _you're_ the one who's been assigned to oversee his training," Arthur stated. "Why is it left up to _him_ , when he should be challenged, when he's ready to be pushed? Shouldn't that be _your_ decision? How are you to even know what will overwhelm him, if you don't test his boundaries?"

From the corner of his eye, Arthur made note of the fact that Ser Oswell had inched closer to the pair of them, and he could only assume it was to better overhear what they were saying.

"He's my prince," Ser Barristan said firmly. "I will only push him if it's what he wants."

"Ser Gerold said that he specifically requested that he squire under him, though," the younger knight pointed out. "Considering who he is, this isn't a path he _had_ to choose. The prince doesn't _need_ to squire under anyone. And yet, he asked him. What is that an indication of, if not a request in itself that is asking for a proper challenge? For the proper instruction? Has he _ordered_ everyone to take it easy on him?"

"Prince Rhaegar has _never_ abused his power in that way," there was a sudden sharp edge in the older man's tone, his stare now fixed pointedly on the Dornishman at his side. "On the contrary, when he began his training, he requested that he be treated the same as any other squire. As a sign of respectful deference to his position, however, I could not oblige, and the prince has not pressed the issue."

Arthur averted his gaze, back to the prince, as he listened to the White Cloak's reflection, which was somehow casting a new light upon the Targaryen.

"So, you're saying that he explicitly asked not to be treated as the prince, during his training, and yet, that's precisely what you've been doing?" he questioned, a single brow arching. He glanced aside then, to Ser Oswell, who was deliberately staring in the opposite direction, and then toward Ser Gwayne as well, who was still trading blows with Prince Rhaegar. "It's what _all_ of you have been doing." His piercing blue eyes fell on Ser Barristan once more, as he asked, "And what of the Lord Commander?"

"The Lord Commander is more willing to push the prince," the older knight allowed, "but he also understands there is a respectful line in place, which none of us are obligated to cross."

"It seems to me that it's a respectful line which your prince _asked_ you to cross," Arthur emphasized, his frustration growing by the second. "Perhaps he understands that this boundary you maintain does just that: it places a boundary on him. His skill can only ever improve within a set parameter. It's doing nothing but hindering his growth."

"Would _the Sword of the Morning_ care to share his opinion with the rest of us?!" the voice of Ser Gwayne called out from across the yard. The three men turned to see that he and the prince had ended their spar, and they were both now glaring in their direction.

Arthur adopted a neutral expression, save the unamused look he cast to the boisterous knight. "I believe that's between me and Ser Barristan."

"And that is how it should remain," Prince Rhaegar conceded, briefly shifting his gaze to award Ser Gwayne a warning look. However, he immediately shot his glower back to the Dornishman, as he expressed, in a cutting, harsh voice, "Ser Arthur, while I appreciate your willingness to restrict your judgements to Ser Barristan alone, I cannot help wondering if you are entirely incapable of withholding your opinion."

Returning the prince's stare with the same, impassive look he had been obliged to grant Ser Gwayne, Arthur replied simply, "I'm not incapable. I deemed it an opinion worth voicing, and I chose to do so."

While this only served to infuriate the prince further, Ser Oswell appeared visibly uncomfortable at the turn of conversation, fidgeting in his footing. Ser Gwayne, on the other hand, was still determined to know what precisely had been said.

"And what, _exactly_ , was this worthy opinion?" he pressed, slowly advancing toward the Dayne. "Is this _still_ about his training? Was yours really so very different? Do you mean to imply that you could train the prince better than Ser Barristan? Or _us_?" Ser Gwayne now stood a mere arm's length from the younger knight. "Where do you come off thinking you're in any position to train _anyone_?"

Arthur's expression did not shift for a moment as he met Ser Gwayne's heated gaze. His tone remained calm and even as he said, "I do happen to have some experience, in training. I've had a few squires of my own. The progress they made, and their swift improvement, is where I come off believing I'm in a qualified position to train someone. When I see potential, I don't believe it should be wasted."

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the obvious offense that came over Ser Barristan's expression. The older knight remained silent, nonetheless. His change in demeanor did not seem lost on the prince either, however, who quickly approached the pair and attempted to intervene.

"Ser Gwayne," he addressed his Kingsguard, placing a hand on his shoulder. "That's enough."

"No!" the haughty knight roughly shoved the prince's hand off him, before gesturing vehemently toward Arthur. "I'm not finished. I won't be finished until I see Ser Arthur Dayne live up to all _this_! The ego, the pride, the boasting, the _fancy_ sword, the _fancy_ title—I haven't seen him measure up to _any_ of it!"

"I am more than happy to show you," Arthur responded, his tone nonchalant.

"You're going to show us you can train somebody?" Ser Oswell asked, his brow furrowed in perplexity. "I thought _that's_ what the issue was."

"So it was," Arthur agreed, and his stare rested pointedly on the prince. "As I understand it, you did once ask to be treated as any other squire, did you not?"

Prince Rhaegar narrowed his eyes in response to this query, a frown taking form at the corner of his mouth. Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne had all at once gone silent, and they now eyed the Dornishman with a sudden wariness.

"Ser Arthur," Ser Barristan finally spoke, in a cautionary tone, "if you are about to do what I think, then I strongly advise against it. This course can't end well."

"And why is that?" Arthur rounded his gaze on the older knight, his rising frustration reaching its limit at the way they all _insisted_ on treating their crown prince. "Are you afraid he might actually learn something?"

Ser Barristan lowered his eyes, visibly wounded. He was once again at a loss for words.

The Targaryen prince drew a deep inhale of breath, his hand quivering at his side as his face hardened. "Ser Arthur…," he spoke in a strained voice. "I will fight you, but you will not disrespect Ser Barristan again. Is that understood?"

"As you wish," Arthur responded only.

He drew _Dawn_ from its sheath and then crossed the yard several paces from the three, onlooking White Cloaks. He could feel his hand tingling in anticipation as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"My Prince," the knight offered him a slight bow of his head.

Prince Rhaegar returned the bow, and then proceeded to lift his own sword, adopting a practiced stance. His posture was well formed, it was apparent that he had learned the basics effectively, although there was a noticeable restraint that had not been present in his earlier sparring matches. That would not serve him well.

Arthur Dayne did not hesitate.

He lunged into an offensive assault on the young prince, striking at the weaker points he had taken note of in Prince Rhaegar's last three matches. The prince was forced back several paces within a matter of seconds, but Arthur felt pleased at the Targaryen's reaction time. He blocked each of the blows, and narrowly dodged another. He held a decent defensive for a few more moments, but he was caught by surprise when Arthur shifted his stance, changing his dominant hand and striking at the prince from the left instead of the right, and in the split-second when Prince Rhaegar left an opening, _the Sword of the Morning_ took the opportunity and struck at him with the side of his sword, slamming it against the other man's shoulder at full force, and knocking him face forward into the dirt.

A weighted silence fell over the courtyard. Arthur glanced aside briefly, to take in the notably shocked expressions that each of the members of the Kingsguard now wore. They stood still for another moment, until Ser Barristan advanced a few careful steps, his eyes locked on the prince.

Prince Rhaegar was currently pushing himself up off the ground, his back to them as he held his hand against his shoulder. When he did not turn around, Ser Barristan addressed him warily.

"Prince Rhaegar…"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the lot of them. They were certainly making quite the fuss over a sore shoulder. He may be the prince, but had he honestly _never_ gotten so much as a bruise from his training before? What sort of squire _was_ he?

"I'm alright," the prince assured the concerned knight, before finally turning to face them.

Behind the dirt that now covered his fair complexion, his eyes were darting between the present members of his Kingsguard and occasionally shifting to the man who had beaten him. There was a distinct hint of fear in those deep, violet eyes, and it instilled in Arthur an immediate sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. Something had him worried. And the anxious looks the Dornishman was receiving from the White Cloaks did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

"For everyone's safety…my father is to hear nothing of this."


	2. Enlightenment

Back to the Start

Chapter II

"Enlightenment"

…

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

Hurrying footsteps swiftly fell further and further away, before the harsh sound of heavy doors slamming echoed through the halls, and all fell to a dead silence. It was only appropriate. He seemed to have had quite a knack for leaving a silence in his wake, since he had arrived. And a dead silence might very well be what he found himself facing.

Arthur Dayne was not accustomed to hesitating, but he felt an unmistakable sense of reluctance as he forced his eyes to meet the only other pair in the room. Ancient eyes met his, and there was the same apprehensive look in them that he had witnessed in the other three Kingsguard.

" _For everyone's safety…my father is to hear nothing of this."_

He wasn't sure it could have been said anymore plainly. The prince might as well have told him directly that his actions were punishable by death, as far as the king was concerned. Not that he would. It seemed that Prince Rhaegar was far more adept than he at keeping his true opinions in check. In the end, he supposed, all he could say for himself was that he stood by his convictions. It would be a shame, if this _was_ what cost him his life, it was certainly nothing at all how he had ever envisioned it, but then, how could _anyone_ truly predict that sort of thing?

Arthur did what he could to maintain an impassive front, although he spoke in a rather solemn tone as he informed Ser Harlan Grandison, "They seem convinced I've written my own death sentence."

After what had taken place in the courtyard, Ser Barristan had escorted the prince back inside the castle. Ser Gwayne had departed on his own, and Ser Oswell had taken it upon himself to usher Arthur inside the White Sword Tower. There, he had rushed through an explanation to Ser Harlan of all that had transpired, before hurrying off once more, to fetch the Lord Commander. Arthur was now standing in the Round Room alone with the old White Cloak.

"That's because no one has ever tried what you did out there," Ser Harlan attempted a lighthearted smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. "Although…there _is_ a chance that you will live to see another day. Another _several_ days, gods willing."

"A chance?" Arthur questioned, as a single brow shot up. Was that truly all there was? "That certainly doesn't sound promising," he admitted, as he stepped further into the room and allowed his eyes to wander, taking in the antique suits of armor and decorative swords that lined the walls. Ancient artifacts of the Kingsguard. An order which it seemed was swiftly becoming nothing more than a naïve dream that he had hung his hopes on.

"I would give you more hope if I could, but it's difficult to say anything for certain," the old knight told him, in what he assumed was an attempt at a consoling tone.

There was a brief pause, and then, from behind him, Arthur could hear the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the clank of armor as Ser Harlan approached. He came to a stop, standing directly beside him, his eyes also fixed pointedly on the wall's ornamentation, before he leaned in close to the younger man and stated, in a hushed tone, "It all depends on the whim of the king."

The whim of the king?

The Dayne narrowed his eyes at this piece of information, considering it, and the very reason the older knight deemed it necessary to convey it in such secrecy, even within these restricted walls. In an undertone to match Ser Harlan's, then, he concluded, "You're saying His Grace is temperamental." He shifted his piercing, blue eyes to rest on the White Cloak once more, before musing, "And there's a good chance this could go _either_ way."

"You're rather perceptive, Arthur," Ser Harlan regarded him with a fond smile. He then added, with a wink, "For one so young. Personally, I'm hoping the king chooses _not_ to kill you. It would be a shame to lose my new favorite so soon."

Arthur allowed himself a smile at that. "Have I reached favorite status already? Well…I suppose I can hardly blame you," here, he gave an easy shrug of his shoulders. "While I'm sure it comes as no surprise, I'm hoping he chooses not to kill me, as well. It seems preferable."

"I can't think of a single person who would disagree with us," the aged knight returned. A sudden wave of realization sweeping over him, his eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "Ah! You know, there's also a _third_ possibility! There's a chance, though slim, that the king will _never_ even find out."

"Hm…," the Dornishman's eyes returned to the suit of armor in front of them, as he gave a slight shake of his head. "Somehow, that doesn't seem likely."

"Oh, it's not," the old man said flatly. "The newest whispers always find their way to his _noble_ ears. Now," here, Ser Harlan turned, and began shuffling his feet back toward the table, where he sat and carried on with the meal he had previously neglected, "since there's a chance you may last the night, I believe a chat is in order. More specifically, a chat about His Grace and a few unspoken rules we all follow."

"Very well," Arthur replied, his eyes trained on the old White Cloak, as he followed him a few paces, but he halted in his steps beside the table. It seemed presumptuous, somehow, to take a seat in one of those seven chairs. Traditionally, each one was designated for an appointed member of the Kingsguard. Therefore, he remained standing.

"Let's have that chat," he said simply.

Ser Harlan released a mirthful chuckle between mouthfuls, not even bothering to look up from his plate as he said, "I admire your enthusiasm, but this chat will be more productive when more of my Brothers are present. Save that eagerness for tonight, ser."

And so, they waited. By the time the Lord Commander returned to the tower, Ser Harlan had long since finished his meal and insisted that Arthur sit with him—although, the old knight _did_ point out that standing for long periods of time was a necessary skill for any Kingsguard. Ser Gerold entered the small room, his expression hardened, his eyes stern, with Prince Lewyn, Ser Gwayne and another, unfamiliar face trailing behind him. Given his dragonscale armor, and the distinct white cloak he wore, Arthur was only left to conclude that this must be Ser Jonothor Darry.

The _White Bull_ did not bother with introductions, however.

"Oswell told me what happened," he stated bluntly. His stare was fixed pointedly on the Dayne. "It seems I failed to anticipate how quickly we would be needing a talk like this, but you've made quite the spectacle of yourself, Ser Arthur. Of course, it remains to be seen how much good it will even do you, at this point."

He walked around the table before settling himself into his chair, and the others followed suit. Prince Lewyn, who had claimed the seat beside Arthur, had not taken his stare off his fellow Dornishman. His brow was creased, and his dark eyes were filled with evident concern. Arthur wondered briefly if the older knight might feel somewhat responsible for the situation he seemed to have gotten himself in. Ser Gwayne, on the other hand, looked quite smug. He was practically lounging in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and a barely contained smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The newcomer, Ser Jonothor, had his eyes locked on the Lord Commander. His stare was solemn, his overall bearing dutiful, and he sat with perfect rigidity. He made no motion, his eyes did not wander.

When they were all seated, Ser Gerold spoke again. "What were you thinking, picking a fight with the prince, in the first place?"

"I'm not sure what Ser Oswell told you," Arthur began, "but it had nothing to do with picking a fight. It had to do with his training." He had no interest in making excuses for himself, but he did feel his actions warranted some explanation. "It didn't seem conducive to his learning, the methods they were using, and I thought, especially given the potential I saw, he deserved more of a push."

"Well, you certainly gave him that," the Lord Commander returned dryly. His stare shot to the side then, landing on the self-satisfied expression on Ser Gwayne's face, and he questioned, his tone harsh, "Is there something amusing about this, Gwayne?"

The young knight kept the same, smug smile as he said, "Well, _I_ just feel like he had this coming. You should have seen him out there, ser. He had the nerve to act like he knew better than _Ser Barristan_ , and he was looking down on the rest of us. _Including_ the prince."

"Is _that_ how you feel?" Ser Gerold drawled, regarding the younger man with stern indifference. "The way I see it, I can excuse Ser Arthur for the actions he took, given what little knowledge he has of the customs of King's Landing and of our king. However, I have a much harder time excusing _you_. Knowing full well where this course of action might lead him, I should think at least _one_ of you would have had the good sense to caution him against it. And yet, it seems you stood by and did nothing, content to let it play out. You're more responsible for what happened than he is."

"You know better than anyone," Ser Jonothor finally spoke, his tone grave, as his eyes bore into Ser Gwayne. "His Grace could take this as an insult. And if he does, you have cost a man his life. His blood will be on your hands."

The smug expression disappeared, and in its place was a glare, which Ser Gwayne directed in the opposite direction, at the wall. He said nothing.

"I think there's plenty of blame to go around," Prince Lewyn concluded, casting a pointed look at the haughty young knight. He then returned his eyes to the rest of his fellow Kingsguard, as he stated, "We're all at fault in some way for not warning Ser Arthur about the king's temper sooner."

"So we are," the Lord Commander conceded, giving a single, decisive nod of his head in agreement. His gaze returned to Arthur then. "Given the possibility that you may actually survive this, however, I feel it's only prudent that we inform you, now."

Ser Harlan took it upon himself to talk, a twinkle of excitement in his eyes as he said, "I had a similar thought, Lord Commander. Before your return, I suggested we have a chat with our new arrival about certain individuals, and certain…forbidden topics."

"Did you?" Ser Gerold returned. "It seems we're on the same page. Now, then…how do I speak plainly?" He paused a moment, to collect his thoughts, before beginning his explanation. "His Grace can be very easily offended. He may take any attack on his family as a personal attack against himself. He demands respect. That's the very reason we've all been so careful, in our training of the prince, and also why Prince Rhaegar has not pressed the issue. It is difficult to say how the king might take it. And when you have offended the king…," here, a distant look seemed to come over the _White Bull's_ countenance, as though he were reliving some old, painful memory, "it can never end well."

As he spoke, a heavy air seemed to fall over all those listening. It was apparent that Ser Gerold had chosen his words carefully, just as it had been apparent that Ser Harlan could only mention the king's temperamental nature in hushed tones, even in private company. Arthur could not help noting the admiration in Ser Gwayne's eyes as his Lord Commander spoke of the king. The more time Arthur spent in that particular man's presence, the more he felt that he fundamentally disagreed with everything about him. On the other hand, Ser Jonothor seemed to grow impossibly more rigid the more that was said, his expression tense. A rising curiosity took hold of the Dornishman as he observed the unfamiliar White Cloak.

"Now," Ser Harlan broke the silence that had fallen, attempting at a lighter tone, "what works in your favor is the tension that exists between His Grace and his son."

Arthur furrowed his brow at this statement. That was not something he had anticipated. "What do you mean?"

"They have differing views on…," the aged knight trailed off, before giving a small shrug of his shoulders as he assented, "well, pretty much everything. Where the prince is gentler, the king is harsher. Due to their drastically different dispositions, there is an unspoken rift between the two. If the king sees this situation as a humiliation for his son, it's unlikely he'll take it as a personal offense."

His confusion did not dissipate as Ser Harlan offered him this explanation. Rather, it left him more bewildered than before. Did he mean to imply that if King Aerys actually saw what he did as a personal attack against the prince—or, rather, as more of a personal attack against Prince Rhaegar's character—then he might even be _pleased_ by it? Was the dissension between the king and his son so terrible that it might be enough to overcome his otherwise volatile rage? When Ser Harlan had mentioned that his fate relied on the whim of the Targaryen king, Arthur had taken that to mean if they found the king in a good mood. He had certainly not assumed that he meant it depended on _which_ unfavorable characteristic King Aerys chose to entertain.

It seemed Arthur had been too generous in his previous assessment of the king. What sort of father found pleasure in the humiliation of his own son?

"Unfortunate though it is, that's likely your best option," Ser Gerold informed the younger knight.

"I see," Arthur said only. He was not even sure what else _to_ say.

"And, Arthur…," Prince Lewyn began slowly, and the Dayne shifted his gaze to meet the Martell's, which was fixed directly on him, "even if the king excuses your actions, I still want to apologize for placing you in this situation. I should have told you what you were getting into before you ever set foot in the capital."

Arthur's stare fell to the table as he listened to the Dornish prince, and he remained silent a moment, not entirely sure how to react to the apology he was receiving. Finally, he gave a simple shake of his head and assured the man, "You don't need to apologize." As he returned his eyes to meet his once more, he adopted an easy smile and added, "I placed myself in this situation."

"You're too ambitious for your own good," Prince Lewyn conceded, with a returning smile.

"That might be true," _the Sword of the Morning_ allowed. Not that he had ever thought that himself, until now.

"So," Ser Gwayne finally spoke up, his voice laced with irritation, "you all wanted to have this chat to give the new arrival false hope and subtly talk about our king behind his back? Why is _no one_ bringing up what happened with Ser Barristan?"

"It seems you just did," Ser Gerold pointed out, in his usual, dry tone.

"Yes, I did," the younger knight stated. "I really didn't think I was the only one who cared, though."

"It has nothing to do with no one caring," the Lord Commander informed him. "However, what happened with our prince is a more pressing concern. I'm sure Ser Barristan would agree. Whatever offense he might have taken, that's a private matter which can be dealt with at another time."

"What do you mean by private?" the haughty White Cloak pressed.

"I mean it's a separate issue, to be resolved between the two of them, and I don't want to hear any more about it from you," Ser Gerold said sternly, in a tone which would brook no argument. "If you're concerned on your Brother's behalf, you can express that to Ser Barristan."

Ser Gwayne gave one final, dismissive huff, before falling silent once more.

The silence was cut short almost immediately, however, at the sound of the tower doors slamming open. In that same instant, every Kingsguard abruptly shot to their feet, and Arthur felt a sudden increase in his heart rate. The loud sound of footsteps echoed off the high walls. It seemed all those reassurances truly had been for nothing, and Ser Gwayne had the right of it. It had been little more than false hope. Nonetheless, he maintained a composure over his demeanor and took a long, steady intake of breath, before lifting himself to his feet as well, and then turning to face the open doorway of the Round Room.

What he found standing there, however, left him a bit surprised.

Prince Rhaegar's presence was unexpected, but beside him stormed in a young man with vibrant, red hair and his pale blue eyes were overcome with a fury. He strode right past the prince and did not stop until he was standing face to face with _the Sword of the Morning_ , and when he spoke, his voice came out in a shrill tone.

"You!" he cast an accusatory finger toward Arthur. "You, ser, I presume must be Arthur Dayne?"

"Oh, Jon!" Ser Harlan released a weighted sigh in relief, placing a hand to his chest. "It's only _you_. You almost gave me a heart attack."

"My Prince," Ser Gerold greeted the Targaryen with a formal bow of his head, and Arthur thought he almost detected the hint of a smile on the Lord Commander's face. When he shifted his eyes to the redhead, however, his tone turned scolding and he demanded, "Was that boisterous entrance necessary, Jon?"

"Boisterous is what our young Lord Connington does best," Prince Lewyn sent the Lord Commander a wink.

"I take it you have all heard what happened," the man named Jon was not deterred by their commentary. He seemed determined in whatever he had come here for. "This man," he gestured vehemently toward Arthur, "who has the audacity to prance around calling himself a _knight_ , has injured and humiliated our prince! Has nothing been _done_ about it?"

"I'm not sure how you heard about that," the _White Bull_ cast a quick, curious glance in Prince Rhaegar's direction.

"Jon heard it directly from my father. It seems someone told him what happened this afternoon," the prince explained, and even as he said it, his violet eyes began a careful inspection around the room. Arthur noticed his gaze lingered a moment longer on Ser Gwayne. Curious. Of all the faults he had begun laying at that bigoted knight's feet, he was not sure he had taken him for a snitch.

"And, Jon," Prince Rhaegar continued, his eyes again on the fuming young lord, "I already told you to let it go. Leave Ser Arthur alone."

"His Grace _laughed_ when he heard it!" Jon Connington could not seem to contain his rage, and he gave the prince's words little heed. "He _laughed_! What do you have to say for yourself, Ser Arthur?!"

Arthur beheld the young man in front of him, at something of a loss. He was still in the midst of processing this new information. It seemed his life was to be spared, after all. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. As relief flooded over him, he merely arched a single, inquisitive brow at the emphatic man.

" _Who_ are you, exactly?" he asked.

The redhead looked affronted. "I am the only son and heir of Lord Armond Connington, of Griffin's Roost," he said, with an air of self-importance. "I happen to be Prince Rhaegar's closest friend and confidante, and if none of his Kingsguard will defend him from the likes of _you_ , then I will!"

From behind his friend, the prince closed his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. Arthur could not help noting what an interesting choice in companion this was, for the gentle Targaryen prince.

"Is that so?" Arthur returned, his tone calm and collected. "If it's his defense you mean to come to, are you much better than him with a blade? Or, do you mean to defend your prince by expressing your own irritation?" He gave the young lord a quick onceover, before adding, "That's an interesting choice of weapon."

"You will not insult me, ser!" Lord Connington insisted, his face turning a shade darker, to match his hair. "You have no right, just as you have no right to raise your sword against the prince! You owe him a heartfelt apology!"

"I owe My Prince nothing of the sort," the Dornishman stated firmly. "I offered him a challenge, and he accepted. I gave him a fair fight—nothing more or less."

"It was not a fair fight," Jon disagreed, narrowing his pale eyes into a glare. "You disrespected your prince when you struck at him, and you showed us all how little honor you truly have!"

"On the contrary," Arthur's gaze hardened on the fuming young lord, but he kept an even tone, "I showed him the proper respect he was due. I respected him enough to fight without holding back, and to offer him a fair challenge. An _actual_ challenge. As far as I can tell, anything _less_ than that is a sign of disrespect."

"You already made your point on that matter, Ser Arthur," the prince took it upon himself to intervene. He spoke with a notable restraint in his voice, although a glimmer in his eyes betrayed his buried wrath. "There's no need to repeat it. You were fortunate that my father reacted so favorably this time. You've been given a second chance, and I'm in no mood to argue with you."

Arthur regarded Prince Rhaegar in silence another moment, before offering a subtle inclination of his head. He was still not sure who this Jon Connington was, or what he was doing here, or why he had taken it upon himself to yell in his face, but he _had_ shared his opinion on this particular matter quite enough for one day—so much so that it had almost cost him his life—and he was not interested in arguing with the prince, either. Although, in truth, he wondered if this recent gamble of his, and its success, could reflect something more. Just as no one had tested the prince's boundaries, so, too, did it seem that few were willing to test the king's. And yet, accident or not, he had, and he had proven that there actually _did_ exist some hope here. In particular, hope for that potential he had seen in Prince Rhaegar earlier that day.

Nevertheless, he replied simply, "Very well, My Prince. I will not say any more about it, for the time being."

"Very good," Jon gave a single nod in satisfaction. "Now, apologize."

"You know," Ser Harlan suddenly chimed in, "I'm feeling rather parched. Ser Gerold," he looked pointedly to the Lord Commander as he addressed him, "do you think your squires might help with that?"

"That's not a bad idea," Ser Gerold allowed, and he looked to Lord Connington, who seemed stunned in disbelief, and Prince Rhaegar, who could not seem to help smiling at the old knight's suggestion. "Prince Rhaegar. Jon. Why don't you bring us some drinks? You can have one yourselves, as well. And then, perhaps, you can get started on dinner."

Arthur arched a single brow at this, as his piercing gaze shifted back to the young redhead. Was Jon Connington also Ser Gerold's squire?

"Right away, Lord Commander," the prince bowed his head, before grabbing his friend's arm and practically dragging him out of the room. For that brief moment, Arthur could have sworn he saw Jon's entire countenance relax in the prince's hold on him.

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

The young Targaryen sighed.

Even after following Ser Gerold's drinking suggestion, Jon was still fuming. Rhaegar understood that he was attempting to defend him, but it was still slightly annoying. Jon knew better than most that he was uncomfortable with the attention his actions brought on. Perhaps it was an unfair thought, but he knew there was a part of his friend that sought out these opportunities. A chance to remind the world he was close to the crown prince and would guard him against anyone who so much as glanced at him the wrong way. It was touching, and Rhaegar was grateful to his friend, but he loathed the pedestal he was placed on. For some reason, Jon thought he could do no wrong. He thought much too highly of him.

Rhaegar took a moment to check on the soup's progress, and, after determining it required a few more minutes, he returned his gaze to his childhood friend. He attempted to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he addressed him.

"Jon, are you _really_ still angry?"

The redhead was currently leaning against the small table that rested in the center of the kitchen. There was an obvious air of tension about him, from his clenched fist resting on the wooden surface to the hand he had tightly wrapped around his mug of ale. He released an exasperated sigh and shook his head in dismay.

"Rhaegar…," he said slowly, with an attempt at an even tone. "I cannot just let this pass. His actions shouldn't go unpunished. After the position he put you in…," here, he trailed off, and lifted his pained gaze to rest on his friend.

"The position I put _myself_ in," Rhaegar reminded him, internally scolding himself for how harsh the words came out. "Beating me in a fight is not something worthy of punishment. Even if it was…that is not your decision to make."

"Beating you in a fight would be one thing," Jon began, his tone growing more erratic. "But knocking the prince into the dirt, injuring him, and, worst of all, _humiliating_ you…," his hand was now trembling in its hold on his ale, " _that_ is what he should answer for. He's shown you nothing but disrespect, and if the way he's been speaking to you, and to Ser Barristan, has been _anything_ like that display in there just now, it's worse than I believed. He clearly is under the delusion that he can waltz around and say anything he likes to _anyone_ , no matter _who_ they are. And if there aren't any repercussions for it, why _should_ he think any differently?"

Rhaegar lowered his gaze at that. Jon had a point; Ser Arthur _had_ been behaving rather disrespectfully towards Ser Barristan. The prince recognized the confusion on the Dornish knight's face as Ser Barristan explained his training methods, and, under normal circumstances, he would be in the right to suggest a change, but King's Landing was not like the rest of Westeros. Ser Arthur was now closer to the secrets of the Seven Kingdoms than he probably ever hoped to be. Defeating the prince in something as menial as a _spar_ should not be celebrated with the fear of death, but that was what his father wanted. Nothing seemed to delight him as much as the fear he instilled. Humiliating his son came close, though.

The prince ran a hand through his hair and sighed, suddenly feeling drained. He had not seen his father since before the incident in the training yard, but he knew it would not be long before he was summoned. Even if his father already laughed once in reaction to the tale, he would be overcome with glee when he heard it from his own heir. Rhaegar could not decide if he was hoping his father would simply send for him now and get it over with or wait. He could never seem to escape these conflicted feelings.

Returning his violet stare to his friend, he waited another moment before breaking the short silence, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "I think almost losing his life today was more than enough. If he continues to disrespect Ser Barristan, I will address it. He's come across as arrogant and rude since I met him, but I hope he can surprise me. I don't like thinking poorly of anyone."

Jon released a sigh, before giving an understanding nod, "I know you don't. It goes against your nature. Even so, I wouldn't get my hopes up with _this_ one. I would hate to see you disappointed."

Disappointment had become a daily occurrence for the prince. Every day, he hoped his father would become the loving parent he only caught glimpses of as a child. He hoped to see his mother smile with pure bliss. He hoped the struggling peasants of King's Landing would no longer have to live in poverty. He hoped the feuding Houses would set aside their differences and reach a peaceful compromise. He hoped to see every member of his Kingsguard freed from the difficult burdens that came with serving under his father…serving under his family. He longed to see the day when happiness was more common in Westeros than hurt and pain, but all that hope was nothing more than an unattainable dream. Even if unrealistic imaginings became a reality…winter was coming.

Rhaegar mentally shook all thoughts of the daunting prophecy away. This was not the time to dwell on that. All he could do at the moment was focus on his training, which currently required serving dinner. Glancing beside him, he acknowledged the subtle bubbling of the soup and the pleasant aroma in the air. He smiled slightly as his senses anchored him back to the present.

Turning to Jon once more, he directed a small smirk at him, "I can't help it, my friend. It's in my nature."

"So it is, My Prince," Jon conceded, with a returning smile. "It doesn't make me hate seeing it any less."

Rhaegar's smirk faded. He knew Jon regarded him beyond what was normal between friends, which often left him feeling guilty. He valued their friendship very deeply. Jon had been there for many of the dark times in the prince's life, and the Targaryen was convinced that he owed part of his sanity to him. Despite Jon's flaws, he had stayed by his side and legitimately cared. He could only name a handful of people in his life that had done the same, and each one held a special place in his heart. Perhaps it was unfair to act so familiarly with Jon when he knew his feelings were unrequited, but he selfishly clung to their friendship.

Rhaegar nodded solemnly, "I know."

* * *

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

"You know," Ser Harlan was presently remarking in a hushed tone, as he leaned in close to Arthur, who was seated beside him, "it's taking them an awfully long time with that food. It makes you wonder what's happening."

"Does it?" the younger knight returned, as he awarded the White Cloak a single, arched brow. "And what, exactly, do you think might be happening?"

"Any number of things could be happening, since it's _those_ two," the old man's tone was now dripping with a suggestive edge, as he jabbed his elbow into Arthur's side with a wink. "I mean, did you _see_ the way the prince just dragged Jon out of here? Now, I don't know about _you_ , but _I'm_ certainly never that excited for cooking duty."

Arthur's piercing gaze shifted toward the kitchen once more, as he reflected on the notable change that had come over the young Lord Connington when the prince had laid his hands on him. He had not been entirely certain what to make of it, or if he had simply been reading too much into what he had seen. He had decided to give them both the benefit of the doubt, considering how his own past experience with Dornish culture might be influencing his observation, but now, it seemed, his deduction had been nearer to the mark than even he had believed.

He wondered briefly if Prince Rhaegar shared the affections of his _closest friend and confidante_.

"That might very well be because there isn't much excitement to be found, in the _cooking_ part of it," Arthur noted, and he cast Ser Harlan an easy smirk. "I'm sure there's a number of other ways they might keep themselves occupied, though."

He was met with obvious shock on the older knight, who was clearly surprised at how he had chosen to respond. Not a moment later, though, his eyes lit up, and his mouth transformed to cast the Dornishman an impish smile. "And they're all _very_ exciting," he agreed. "Some more than others. I wouldn't bet on the most exciting option, though. I'm convinced our prince is too refined to do such a thing in public. If Jon had his way, though…," he purposefully trailed off, leaving the rest to be implied.

"Oh?" a single, inquisitive brow shot up. "You mean to say that Jon Connington _hasn't_ had his way with the prince? Or," he gave a subtle tilt of his head, "just not publicly?"

" _Well_ …from what I know, dear Jon has only had his way with the prince in his every dream, _but_ …," here, the old knight's voice dropped an octave lower than before, "a few of us have a running bet placed on when, or _if_ ,that will change."

"I see. And in which direction have _you_ placed your bet? When? Or if?" Arthur inquired of the man beside him. He felt genuinely curious, and admittedly a bit surprised at how much he was learning of the inner dynamics of the Targaryens within the course of a single day.

"Oh, _when_. Absolutely," there was an air of certainty in Ser Harlan's voice. However, that impish gleam was still present in his eyes. "How I see it, Jon is so smitten, and our prince is so overcome by his emotion and the emotions of others, he'll just give in."

"You don't think highly of Prince Rhaegar's willpower," the Dayne observed.

Although, even he had already noticed, in the short time he had interacted with the prince, that he did seem easily overwhelmed by his emotions, if they struck the right chord in him. He had taken offense at the way Arthur had questioned Ser Barristan, and his methods, so much so that it had moved him to accept a challenge which he had otherwise seemed perfectly disinclined to entertain. That being said, this _was_ a separate matter, and while he was certain that Ser Harlan had a far better idea of the Targaryen prince than he did, it was hard to say that the old White Cloak was entirely serious in any of this.

"Only in regard to the one Jon Connington," Ser Harlan stated, as if it were a universal fact.

Well, now he was more convinced than ever that he could not take the old knight's word on this. Arthur found himself smiling in the amusement at him nonetheless.

As he regarded the elderly man in silence another moment, he was reminded of an earlier thought he had, when he had first met him. It did stand to reason, that the oldest member of the Kingsguard would be the first in need of replacement, but even as he reasoned this, he could not help the growing reservation he felt, at that highly plausible outcome. It would be a shame if he were here to take up Ser Harlan Grandison's place. He found he had become quite fond of the coy, old knight.

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

After realizing how long they had been in the kitchen, Rhaegar moved towards the fire where the pot of soup resided. He paused briefly, his gaze momentarily transfixed by the glowing orange flames. _The Prince That Was Promised… The Three Heads of the Dragon_ … The familiar mantra echoed in his mind. He wondered, not for the first time, if the prophecy really did pertain to him. Was it arrogance that led his mind to that conclusion? Did he even want to bear the burden of every living person in Westeros? Sometimes he tried to talk himself out of it. The weight was too much, and he was not special in any way.

It was too late to think that way, though. He was already set on this course, and he felt a sense of destiny from it. He could no longer deny that this was what he was born to do, and he would follow the path, no matter where it might lead.

Only after his thoughts trailed away did the Targaryen notice his hand had unconsciously risen towards the fire, the heat drawing him closer. The lore he agonized over all contained the same information: fire cannot hurt a Dragon. If he was truly a Dragon, then maybe…

Maybe he had lost his mind.

Rhaegar blinked and quickly lowered his arm, the abruptness of the action causing a searing pain in his shoulder. He winced slightly and massaged his shoulder a moment before redirecting his attention back to the boiling liquid. He reached for it, but he was stopped by a hand on his.

"My Prince…," Jon's voice was laced with concern. "You're hurt."

The prince withheld the urge to roll his eyes, instead closing them momentarily and releasing a frustrated sigh. He then focused his violet gaze on his friend. Jon's entire countenance expressed his transparent worry, and he lifted his hand to rest it gingerly on Rhaegar's injured shoulder.

Rhaegar frowned.

Everyone around him treated him like some fragile, wounded animal. Well, _almost_ everyone. There was, of course, his father, but until today, he was the only one. Arthur Dayne had swiftly made himself the other exception. It was strange. He should be angry at the man who shamed Ser Barristan in front of two other sworn knights, and for being the cause of yet another humiliating moment from the king, but he was grateful to the self-assured Dornishman. Ser Arthur was the first person to ever treat him as a normal human being. For that one moment, he was not Rhaegar Targaryen, crown prince and only son of Aerys II. He was simply Rhaegar. Falling to the ground was, ironically, the most excited he had felt in a long time. _The Sword of the Morning_ was everything his reputation boasted and more. Personality aside, the man was a true legend.

These thoughts, however, brought with them a feeling of acute guilt. Rhaegar understood _why_ he was regarded differently, and it was unfair to hold anyone at fault for it. He was honored to train under the Lord Commander and Ser Barristan. They were legends in their own right, and the prince held a considerable amount of respect and admiration for the both of them. They trained him as well as they could, given the circumstances. There was not a single person in King's Landing who was reckless enough to test the unstable king. Until Arthur Dayne.

Not only that, but for some of them, it was more. They were concerned for both his emotional and physical well-being. Jon fell into this category. Rhaegar knew his friend was only looking out for him. He _was_ injured, after all, but even still, he could not help the underlying feeling of resentment that stirred at his open display of concern.

"It's only my shoulder, Jon," Rhaegar finally responded, the annoyance seeping into his words. He withdrew from his friend's touch, and his gaze fell to the floor. "I'll be fine."

"But, you're not," the redhead insisted, his tone somewhat dejected, but there was a strong, forceful edge to it, even as his hand fell limp at his side. "This is all that arrogant, Dornish cur's fault. Please…don't overexert yourself. I'll handle the rest of this, you let your arm relax," he instructed, as he moved toward the cauldron of soup and took the ladle.

Rhaegar resisted the argument on the tip of his tongue, instead allowing Jon the freedom to distribute the soup into the individual bowls. He arched a brow, however, when he noticed that his friend was purposefully leaving one bowl less full than the others. It was obvious that he was not going to let up on his grudge against Arthur Dayne anytime soon. He was perfectly capable of reacting maturely about this situation, but he instead chose to stoop.

The Targaryen shook his head, a slight amusement stirring at the entire ordeal, as he muttered under his breath, "What am I going to do with you?"

After placing the six bowls on a tray, Jon turned and headed back to the Round Room, wearing a self-satisfied smile. Rhaegar held back a chuckle and followed him out. By the time he reached the room, Jon had already started setting the soup on the table in front of each member. He was clearly saving Ser Arthur's for last. The Targaryen lingered behind, choosing to instead recline against the wall and silently observe his friend's antics. He wondered how the esteemed knight would react to the childish prank.

When Jon finally came to the last bowl, he set it down before the Dornishman, lowering his hand in a slow, exaggerated motion, all the while staring at the knight with a pointed look. Ser Arthur returned this stare with an impassive façade, making no indication that he had noticed the slightest difference in the contents of his soup. When he proceeded to offer the redhead a nod and then began his meal, Jon narrowed his pale eyes in a glare.

"Is something troubling you, Jon?" Lewyn called his behavior into question, an edge of playfulness in his tone.

Jon released an exasperated groan in response, before quickly taking a sharp inhale of breath. "No," he said, in obvious irritation. "Nothing at all."

" _Really_?" Harlan chimed in, a mischievous smile in place. "Why else would you be so upset?"

"I'm not upset," the seething squire insisted.

Tilting his chin up, he turned his back to the Kingsguard and strutted across the room to stand beside Rhaegar, who again found himself holding back a laugh on his friend's behalf. Fortunately, Jon seemed to take no notice of this, and everyone else's eyes were focused on the retreating red figure. Or at least, that was what he had thought.

All at once, Rhaegar experienced the distinct feeling of being watched, and he turned to see a pair of piercing blue eyes trained on him. The smile fell from his face. There was a pensive glint in Ser Arthur's gaze, as if he were assessing the prince's actions. The Targaryen tilted his head at that, silently returning the observation. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge the knight's character. Earlier, he had come across as reckless, arrogant, and disrespectful, but now there seemed to be an almost composed quality to him. His lack of a reaction to Jon's immaturity had certainly contrasted with Rhaegar's previous assumption of a man who insisted on arguing. Maybe he was just outspoken.

The Targaryen prince narrowed his eyes slightly, as he came to these conclusions. He would not make a final judgement based on these thoughts alone. He realized he had not yet had a proper conversation with the Dornishman and decided that he needed to rectify that. Rhaegar was not opposed to developing a deeper understanding of the man who rightfully earned the ownership of _Dawn_.

Harlan and Lewyn were still making their jabs at Jon, which the redhead stubbornly brushed aside.

Taking advantage of their continued distraction, Rhaegar's stare landed on Gwayne for the second time that evening. He knew Ser Barristan was far too loyal to ever defy him, and Oswell may be talkative and quick to find a joke, but he would never willingly endanger another person. That only left Ser Arthur himself and Gwayne as the culprit who told his father about the training incident. Even if Ser Arthur was unaware of the king's disposition, the man seemed fairly perceptive, enough to recognize the danger behind the prince's warning. That only left Gwayne, and it was unfortunate that Rhaegar was not surprised by that revelation. He knew there existed some form of tension between them, but he assumed that had more to do with a clash in personality than disloyalty.

Actually, Gwayne had not been disloyal at all. He was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard whose first responsibility was to the king, not his heir. Rhaegar could not fault the knight for choosing his father over him, but he could certainly fault him for purposefully putting another man's life in danger. Gwayne had a choice, and he chose violence. If he would allow an innocent to be subjected to the whims of his father, then there was no telling what else he might be willing to do.

Rhaegar's gaze then landed on Ser Gerold, his stoic countenance appropriately embodying his position as Lord Commander. He would have to wait until the meal and his squiring duties were concluded, but he intended to speak privately with him about this matter. Gwayne may prove to hold nothing more than a grudge against Ser Arthur, but if there was actual ill intent at play, then they would all benefit from keeping a careful watch over him.

"Now, this has all been fun," Harlan was presently remarking, as he rose from his cushioned seat, "but I'm afraid I don't have the spirit of you young folk anymore. I must retire to my chambers."

"Goodnight, Harlan," Ser Gerold said only, in a dismissive tone.

Harlan's jaw fell open in shock at the flippant reaction of the Lord Commander. Rather than exit the room, he instead remained standing with a pointed stare directed at his superior. Rhaegar smiled fondly at this display of the elderly knight's whimsical nature. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a similar amused expression on Ser Arthur.

When Harlan continued to stand in the same, fixed place, Ser Gerold took it upon himself to cast a single raised brow in his direction. "Aren't you retiring?"

"Not until I have been properly seen off!" Harlan exclaimed, resting his hands firmly on the back of his chair.

"We see you," Ser Gerold assured him dryly. "Now, off with you."

"And we'll see you again in the morning, after you've renewed your youthful spirit," Lewyn added, with a mirthful grin.

Harlan predictably grew more flustered by their commentary, stubbornly refusing to move.

Rhaegar smirked, his overall amusement heightening with each passing moment. Harlan seemed to be the only one capable of drawing out this lighthearted side of the Lord Commander. Pushing off the wall, the prince walked a few steps closer to the table.

"Ser Harlan," Rhaegar began, the withheld laughter radiating from his voice. "Is this all an excuse to put off climbing the stairs?"

"Rhaegar!" the appalled old knight rounded on the prince. "Not _you_ , too! Will no one take my side?"

At this, Arthur Dayne rose to his feet beside the man, a distinctive smile in place as he informed him, "If you need someone at your side to help you up the stairs, I'm more than happy to assist you."

There was an instant change that came over Harlan, which Rhaegar regarded curiously. Ser Arthur seemed rather comfortable and to already hold a certain sway over the oldest Kingsguard. His eyes lit up with an accompanying smile, as he placed a weathered hand on the younger knight's shoulder.

"Arthur…that is _so_ thoughtful of you," Harlan spoke, with a praising tone, before directing a coy look at the other occupants of the room. "At least _someone_ cares enough to see that I make it to bed safely."

"Ugh, just go to bed already," Gwayne grumbled from his seat.

"That is the idea," Ser Arthur responded in an easy tone, and before Harlan had a chance to react, he led him out of the small room and toward the flight of stairs.

From his side, Rhaegar heard Jon mutter, "Who does he think he is? Presuming to think Ser Harlan needs help to his own bed."

This time, Rhaegar did not even bother holding back the eye roll.


	3. His Delicate Disposition

Back to the Start

Chapter III

"His Delicate Disposition"

…

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

The Lord Commander was certainly not one to waste any time.

That very same night, after Arthur had finished escorting Ser Harlan to his bedchamber and exchanging a few, closing pleasantries with him, the _White Bull_ had pulled him aside and finally taken it upon himself to press the issue of what had transpired earlier that day with Ser Barristan. The issue which Ser Gwayne had presumed to complain about, when it was readily apparent to everyone that he had simply been seeking out an excuse to complain. Nevertheless, it was a concern which neither Ser Gerold nor Arthur were interested in leaving unsettled, and therefore, when the Lord Commander assigned him the task of spending the remainder of the evening observing Ser Barristan on guard duty, the Dornishman understood full well what the older knight intended.

He wanted them to set aside their differences, and reach some sort of resolution. And, while he was at it, might as well get some training out of his time. Arthur was not the least bit opposed.

By the time Ser Jonothor had finished escorting him to King Aerys' bedchambers, night had descended on King's Landing. The inner palace was illuminated by the faint glow of torchlight. Ser Barristan Selmy was standing directly outside the door, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his face relaxed, but his stance was resolute. At the sound of their approach, his eyes shifted, ever alert, to rest on the pair of them.

"Ser Barristan," Arthur greeted, with a bow of his head. "Lord Commander Hightower has sent me to stand watch with you."

The older knight tensed slightly, but his countenance remained otherwise unchanged.

"If that is what Ser Gerold has commanded. You can stand there," he instructed, gesturing with his free hand toward the opposite side of the door frame. As Arthur did as he was bid, Ser Barristan turned his gaze to his fellow Kingsguard and greeted, "Good evening, Ser Jonothor."

"Ser Barristan," the younger knight returned simply. "I leave him with you."

Without waiting for any further response, he made his abrupt departure.

Arthur stared after him silently a moment, still not quite sure what to make of that man. In their brief interactions, he had noted that Ser Jonothor said as little as possible, betrayed as little as possible in both his words and his overall bearing, and he seemed to grow more rigid than usual whenever the conversation turned to the king. When they had spoken of his volatile, temperamental nature, he had said nothing at all, but it was perhaps the first and only time that Arthur had caught a glimpse of his inner workings. He wondered what precisely had happened to the knight, to result in the shell of a man he was now privy to. Whatever it might have been, he was entirely convinced that King Aerys had been involved somehow. If not entirely responsible.

Returning to the matter at hand, however, the Dayne shifted his gaze, to rest on the older knight at his side once more. He withheld the sigh that threatened in his chest, instead releasing a slow, quiet exhale, as he prepared himself to address the man he had managed to insult earlier that afternoon.

"Ser Barristan," he began, and the White Cloak turned, to meet his stare, as he waited patiently for him to continue. "Before, in the training yard…I spoke to you more harshly than I should have. I realize now that when you attempted to intervene, you were actually doing it for my benefit. Even speaking out openly of your intentions would have been ill-advised, and so you were forced in a position where you had to refrain from doing so. I disregarded your warning, though. I wanted…," Arthur again felt himself hesitating, a strain in his words, but he forced himself to continue, "…to apologize. For doing so. And for my behavior toward you."

As Ser Barristan listened to the younger knight, his eyes lowered to the floor, a reflective look present behind his composed expression. The more Arthur said, the more the strain seemed to ease off him, and when he had finished, the White Cloak offered him a subtle nod of his head.

"I accept your apology, Ser Arthur," he told him. "I understand now, that without the proper knowledge of your new environment, my warning must have seemed like the ramblings of an overprotective mentor. That being said, you weren't entirely wrong. I do feel more protective towards the prince than any of the other squires."

"That stands to reason," Arthur allowed, as he offered the older knight a nod of his own. "I imagine you've been protecting him for such a long time now, it's almost second nature, at this point."

"I've been protecting Rhaegar almost since the day he was born," Ser Barristan reflected with an air of nostalgia. "I've watched him grow into the fine young man he is today. He holds a tender place in my heart, and I would lay down my life for him without a moment's hesitation." Though the familiar, fond glimmer was present in his eyes as he spoke of his prince, a sad edge seeped into his voice, "Even when it comes to his training, the fear of any harm befalling him is at the forefront of my mind."

The Dayne listened in silence, his piercing eyes locked on the White Cloak as he took in every word, considering Ser Barristan's explanation. He could not help noting the level of admiration this man seemed to harbor for the young prince—he and Ser Gerold both seemed to, for that matter. While he permitted that it may, in fact, have to do with the fact that they had been around him for so long, that they had watched him grow, and, in their own ways, even played some role in that, he also wondered if there was something more to it. If there was some factor at play, that he seemed to be missing.

Perhaps he stood out in how his own disposition so starkly contrasted that of his father. As Ser Harlan had pointed out, after all, where King Aerys was harsh, Prince Rhaegar was gentle. After enduring such an oppressive leader as the picture they had aptly painted of Aerys II, a man who never abused his power, as had been stated of Rhaegar, must be quite the refreshment. A shining hope for the future, more or less.

"You realize, though, when you are training him, because you never push him, the potential for harm befalling him is so much greater," Arthur stated, his tone matter-of-fact, but he allowed the sympathetic edge he felt on Ser Barristan's behalf to seep into his words. He was keenly aware of how he repetitive he must sound, at this point, but if there was some way to get this point across to the renowned White Cloak, he was determined to find it.

"At the level he's at," he continued his explanation, "he won't be capable of properly defending himself, if the worst scenario _does_ come to pass, and he finds himself in a position where he needs to. While I have no doubt you're more than capable of protecting him—you and every other member of the Kingsguard—you can't account for every situation, and you therefore can't ensure that you _will_ be there to protect him, when he needs it most. The only way you can know for certain that you _will_ be able to protect Prince Rhaegar, no matter what, even if you yourself are not present, is if you do everything you can to properly equip him to protect _himself_. It might be difficult to do, it might be difficult to watch him suffer a few injuries in the process, but he won't learn any other way. Not well enough, at least. The only way of accounting for a time when you _can't_ be there is by training him to fight every bit as well as you yourself can."

As Arthur spoke, the older knight, who initially met his gaze with a contemplative look of his own, gradually dropped his stare to the floor, all assurance vanishing from his expression. His eyes had grown sadder, and when he spoke, there was a remorseful undertone in his voice.

"I had not considered that before," he admitted. "In every scenario, I had always imagined myself there, at Rhaegar's side, protecting him. I've wished to protect him not only from harm, but also from the burden of needing to fight at all."

Arthur did not particularly enjoy the guilt-ridden state he had put Ser Barristan in. It was not easy to see the calm, composed knight like this, a man who, not but a few hours earlier, had born an air of such confidence. He wondered if this might very well be the reason the conscientious prince had opted to say nothing to his knight about challenging him in their training—in addition to the obvious reason, of course, which was the potential threat it might pose to Ser Barristan's life. If so, he could definitely empathize with their prince. Nevertheless, it was clearly something the man needed to hear, and he therefore felt obligated to say it, all feelings of sympathy aside.

"He _chose_ to fight, though," the Dornishman pointed out. "It's not a burden, it's a decision he made. It's something he's asking for, to learn how to do. Why would you try to relieve him of that?"

"The prince is complicated," Ser Barristan informed him. "He feels it is his duty to fight, but he has never found enjoyment from it. He would never wield a sword again if not for those responsibilities. Violence does not sit well with Rhaegar. He has…a delicate disposition."

A single brow shot up at this description.

Delicate. Gentle. These seemed frequent ways of portraying the prince. And while he was certain that the men who had used these terms meant them, Arthur could not overlook the fire he had seen in Prince Rhaegar's eyes, when he had faced off against him. The fire, and also the restraint. The Kingsguard were not the only ones holding him back from his potential, he realized. If he truly reviled violence as much as Ser Barristan claimed, it would stand to reason that he would inhibit his own fighting abilities. Even so, sometimes it happened that the only way of halting the spread of further violence was through that very same method which the prince so despised.

"A delicate…disposition," Arthur said slowly. "And yet, he seems perfectly aware of his responsibilities, and willing to fulfill that dutiful role he's taken upon himself. He's even gone so far as to put his own feelings on the matter aside and take up that sword he hates so much. Nothing about that strikes me as delicate."

"Delicate does not mean weak," the other man stated firmly. The confidence had returned to his voice. "He possesses an admirable inner strength. He has the will to put the needs of the people first, and the stubbornness to see it through." He gave a slight tilt of his head, before reminding Arthur, as he fixed him with a pointed look, "I _did_ say he was complicated."

"You did," the younger knight allowed.

And, if he were being entirely honest, _complicated_ seemed the most fitting description of Prince Rhaegar that he had heard.

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

Slow, hesitant footsteps echoed through the empty corridor. The young Targaryen prince found a soothing rhythm in the sound, as he made the dreaded journey to his father's bedchambers. Only a few short minutes had passed since a guard was sent to the White Sword Tower to relay the king's summons for his son. Rhaegar had, fortunately, concluded his concerning conversation with Ser Gerold by that time, so he bid his farewells to the older man and begrudgingly exited the tower. The impending meeting with his father would be much more unpleasant if he kept him waiting.

As Rhaegar rounded the corner, he recognized the figure of Jonothor Darry, listlessly headed in his direction. Recognizing the tired expression, the prince decided against addressing the man, instead offering a simple bow of his head as he passed, which Jonothor returned before turning down the adjacent corridor and out of sight.

Rhaegar felt a pang of empathy for the Kingsguard, as he recalled the days when Jonothor greeted life with an idealistic smile. Now, he was shut off from the noise and pain of the world, always with the same hollow glaze in his dark eyes. He never asked what caused the change in him all those years ago, out of respect to his privacy, but he knew his lethargic state was a direct consequence of the king's actions.

Rhaegar paused, his violet gaze falling blankly on the cold, stone floor. Reminiscing on Jonothor's past had unwittingly brought memories of his father to the surface. The prince somberly recalled the early years of his childhood, when his father would look to him with overwhelming pride and, if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see a glimmer of paternal love in his eyes. It only took the emergence of the crown prince's lesser personality to transform that subtle fondness to disdain. While the king mocked him for his compassion, the citizens of King's Landing rejoiced. Aerys II both hated and envied his heir, taking every opportunity to remind him of how weak and pitiful he was beneath the _strong_ Targaryen genes.

And yet, Rhaegar could not find it in himself to hate his father in return. The only thing that nearly pushed him over that line was the abuses he inflicted on his mother…but, even then, the prince clung to his childish love for a man who could not care less.

He released a slow exhale, attempting to calm his emotions and quell the disparaging thoughts. If he appeared before his father in this state, it would only lead to further ridicule, which was much harder to handle when he was this unstable. Leaning with his back against the wall, Rhaegar set his stare on the opposing wall, focusing on the shadows that indiscriminately changed with the movement of the torch flame. He wondered, briefly, if it would be such a terrible fate for the flickering tongue of fire to scorch his unmarred skin. Maybe then everyone would finally see beneath the beautiful silver hair and pristine features of the Targaryen noble to witness the despicable fraud he truly was. The fraud only his father and the prince himself could see.

"…speaking out openly of your intentions would have ben ill-advised, and so you were forced in a position where you had to refrain from doing so."

Rhaegar was abruptly pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a voice in the bordering corridor, leading to his father's bedchambers. It only took him a moment of concentration to recognize the owner of the voice as Arthur Dayne. Sifting through his thoughts, he remembered that Ser Barristan was assigned to guard his father this evening. He could only assume Ser Arthur had been sent by Ser Gerold to further observe the responsibilities of the Kingsguard. Considering the Lord Commander's character, that line of reasoning was expected…but what was unexpected was the genuine remorse and understanding in Ser Arthur's voice.

"I wanted…," there was a pause, and it sounded as though the Dornish knight was struggling to voice his contrition, "to apologize. For doing so. And for my behavior toward you."

Rhaegar's brow furrowed. In all his thoughtless anger and impulsive judgements, he had missed the humility lying beneath Ser Arthur's confidence. _The Sword of the Morning_ was much more than he appeared. He must have trained tirelessly to reach his current position, so it was to be expected that he would have his own stubborn opinions on the matter. He was outspoken, as Rhaegar had concluded earlier, and it must have been frustrating for someone like him to watch a prince supposedly get by with minimal effort. Judging by his words, it was not even his intent to offend Ser Barristan.

He had been entirely wrong about Arthur Dayne.

Rhaegar's enlightened thoughts continued to piece together the brief exchanges he had shared with the knight, when suddenly, the overheard conversation shifted predominantly to him.

He frowned. Ser Arthur was making several valid points regarding his training, and not even Ser Barristan could argue with the logic. Rhaegar _chose_ to fight, he _had_ to fight, whether he liked it or not, but Ser Barristan chose instead to shelter him. He stubbornly refused to push him too far and was therefore refusing to teach him to stand on his own. It was a truth that had existed in the back of the Targaryen's mind for several years now, and one he always tried to deny. He did not want to think poorly of anyone…most of all Ser Barristan. The man was a true knight, and he meant it when he said he would die for him. Not that Rhaegar believed anyone should die for him, but he was all too aware of Ser Barristan's fondness and loyalty, and it made him feel worse for disagreeing with his training.

Rhaegar decided to wait until their discussion was over before taking the final steps toward his father's chambers. He did not want to interrupt, and, perhaps more primarily, he did not want to show his face while Ser Barristan praised him. He was already uncomfortable listening to it, but it would be even worse to look the man he admired in the eye while internally rejecting his beliefs. Walking back the way he had come was not a viable option, either. Lingering much longer without seeing his father could potentially lead to an outburst, one he feared would scathe the knights on guard outside his door. Remaining where he was for the moment seemed to be the best option. He would have to endure.

After Ser Barristan reiterated how complicated the young prince was, the dialog between the sworn knights fell to a comfortable lull. Rhaegar released a quiet sigh, then, grateful to move forward from the discomfort, which he mostly placed on himself. He swiped a hand down the length of his face, as he collected himself. He straightened, once again standing at his full height, and, after releasing a final exhale, he placed one foot in front of the other and took the last steps in the corridor before turning the corner.

The image he perceived was exactly what he had imagined. Ser Barristan stood erect in his familiar post by the door frame while Ser Arthur mirrored him, although significantly more relaxed. Rhaegar smiled slightly at the pair, not for the first time pondering how Barristan Selmy was everything a member of the Kingsguard should be, and how naturally Arthur Dayne fell into place beside him.

They instantly acknowledged his presence. Ser Barristan with a low bow of his head and Ser Arthur with a bow of his own, but there was an easy smile in place. Rhaegar returned these with a nod.

"Good evening, Prince Rhaegar," Ser Barristan spoke first, a gentle gleam in his eyes.

Rhaegar's smile widened. For this moment, he could focus on an interaction with Ser Barristan, a man he idolized and looked to almost as a paternal figure, and Ser Arthur, with whom he was developing a growing fondness.

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar returned, before shifting his gaze to the knight beside him. "Ser Arthur. How are you both faring?"

Ser Arthur noticeably glanced to the White Cloak, but remained silent.

"I feel as though a weight has been lifted, my prince," Ser Barristan responded first.

The prince eyed his mentor curiously. He noted that Ser Arthur now possessed a similar expression, trading the relaxed smile for an arched brow. Deprived of the proper context, Ser Barristan's words would seem unusual and without precedent, but Rhaegar had unintentionally been a witness to this shift. Even without that, though, there was a distinct lack of tension between the knights that had not existed before. The disappearance of the weight had physically manifested onto Ser Barristan's entire countenance.

"I'm feeling rather weightless myself," Ser Arthur added, his gaze now shifting to rest on the prince as a smirk overtook his expression. "But, given the light meal I had earlier, it's only to be expected."

Ser Barristan blinked once in confusion, his gaze now resting fully on the Dornishman, "Is there a reason you did not eat enough at dinner?"

Rhaegar smirked at that, recalling his friend's petty attempt at revenge with amusement. Ser Barristan had missed an eventful experience that evening.

"There was a reason," Ser Arthur assured the older knight, with a single nod of his head. "It's difficult to pinpoint what exactly it was, but there was definitely a reason."

"Really?" the Targaryen feigned surprise, tilting his head slightly. "Because I thought the reason was a little _too_ obvious."

"Perhaps it was. To you," the knight allowed. "For my part, I like to entertain multiple possibilities. For instance, it very well could have been a less than subtle implication from Lord Connington that I should start taking on smaller portions."

"Well, subtlety has never been a shining quality of Jon's," Rhaegar shrugged, before lowering his gaze to give him a pointed onceover. "Although, he may be onto something. He's far more considerate than I gave him credit for."

"He certainly is," Ser Arthur agreed easily. "I'm going to take this warning of his into careful consideration. I'm sure it will affect my eating habits for weeks to come."

Ser Barristan watched them with an amused smile, perfectly content with his ignorance of the situation. After another moment, however, his dark eyes drifted warily to the closed door behind him. Rhaegar followed his gaze with a sigh, the foreboding feeling all at once returning. It would be unwise to prolong it any further.

"Did your father send for you?" the older knight asked, a sympathetic glint rising in his eyes.

The prince merely nodded in response, as he mentally prepared himself for the unpleasant encounter. He instinctively clenched a fist at his side as a physical anchor. Releasing a final weighted exhale, he stepped forward and pushed the door in, before making his entrance into his father's bedchambers.

His eyes automatically scanned the room for its sole occupant, who he quickly glimpsed seated at his dining table in the far corner. As usual, he was shrouded in darkness. There was a faint glow cast on his face from the two torches flickering on either side of him. Laughter danced in his violet eyes like the flame of the candle on the table before him. He had one elbow propped up against the arm of his ornate gold chair, leaning his head lazily against the palm, while the other dangled a goblet from his fingertips.

Rhaegar nodded in greeting to his father, letting the door fall closed behind him. He approached the small table with a measured gait, his gaze fixed on the chair that he proceeded to occupy. He hesitated another moment, before lifting his head to meet the penetrating stare of Aerys II Targaryen. Now that he was closer, he could see the shadow of a smile on his lips. If the younger Targaryen ever questioned why he was summoned, that look alone confirmed his suspicions.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the scattered remnants of food dispersed between several golden trays. There was also a half-full pitcher of wine lying within his father's reach. The prince creased his brow at these observations.

"Father…," Rhaegar began slowly, once again looking the man in the eyes, "did you only just eat dinner?"

"It has been an eventful day," Aerys stated, his voice heavy with implication. His mocking eyes bored into his heir's, as he gave the silence a moment to linger between them. He then slowly, purposefully trailed his eyes down the length of the prince, and then back up again, to once more fix his gaze on the matching set of violet eyes. "You would know about that, though, wouldn't you? I'm told you had quite the ordeal earlier this evening. Though, I must admit, I expected you would have put up more of a fight before letting some foreign knight knock you into the dirt. From the looks of it, you don't have a scratch on you."

Rhaegar was tempted to look away, but he forced himself to hold his stare. It did not matter how long he spent preparing himself for these encounters, how hardened he tried to be, his father's words inevitably reached him. He could accurately predict nearly every word that would come out of his mouth, and still the actual experience broke him down, the same as it always did.

"That was my mistake for fighting _the Sword of the Morning_ ," the prince responded, attempting to mask the strain in his voice. "He lives up to the reputation Ser Gerold imparted."

"He certainly does," those mocking eyes shifted, for the briefest of moments, as a hint of admiration seemed to flicker behind them. "We could use more men like him. Not like these others. A man who isn't afraid to harm the daintiest hair on the prince's pretty, silver head."

Rhaegar somberly nodded that same pretty, silver head, all pretense of strength and composure vanishing. His eyes fell to the tabletop and the disarray that was his father's dinner. He visibly flinched at the familiar sound of laughter rumbling from the king's throat, but that only seemed to further ignite the scornful onslaught.

The weight of his father's ridicule seemed heavier this time. Squires and knights alike were constantly pushed around while training. Falling to the ground was familiar to them, and they always pulled themselves back up, ready to fight another day. Perhaps the only difference between them and Rhaegar was not his position as crown prince. It was his inability to pick himself up after being pushed. It had been almost a decade since his father dropped him in the dirt, leaving the young Targaryen to fend for himself on the cold terrain. The king only ever returned to taunt or destroy another piece of his fragile existence.

Ser Barristan was correct when he called his disposition delicate, and they were all right to treat him accordingly. However, delicate _did_ mean weak. That was exactly what he was, after all. A weak, scared little child who would break at the slightest touch. It only took laughter from his father to reduce him to this pitiful state.

How could someone like _him_ ever rule a kingdom? How could he ever be anything more than a rejected abomination? All he really had was his pretty face and his pretty, silver hair.

If he had scars maiming his perfect complexion, if he had nothing left, would that finally satisfy his father?

As the laughter started to diminish, Aerys raised his goblet. All hysteria promptly ceased when the wine touched his lips. Silence settled between the Targaryens once more, until Aerys emptied the goblet and then reached for the pitcher to refill it.

"I should very much like to meet this _Sword of the Morning_ ," he was presently saying, as the stream of red liquid flowed into his empty chalice.

"He's outside right now," Rhaegar uttered softly, gesturing his head slightly toward the closed door.

"Is he?" Aerys's hand paused, and there was sudden rise in his tone. "Don't just sit there, make yourself useful. Bring him in!"

The prince nodded obediently to the king, dutifully rising from his seat and making his way toward the door. He pulled it open with one swift movement. Summoning as much remaining dignity as he could, he lifted his head and briefly acknowledged the knights on the other side. Rhaegar fixed his stare on Ser Arthur.

"My father wishes to see you."

* * *

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

When the prince stepped out of the room, he was much changed from the man who had entered his father's chambers barely minutes before. The steely resolve and visibly forced composure Prince Rhaegar had armed himself with were nowhere to be seen, and in their place was a sense of dismal defeat. His deep violet eyes were lowered, dejected, even in his feeble attempt to hold his head up high. When he spoke, his tone was almost mechanical. He said what he had been sent out to say, and then he said no more.

Arthur turned his gaze briefly, to the Kingsguard at his side, and as he had anticipated, Ser Barristan had also undergone a significant shift in demeanor. His stance had grown more rigid, and his hand had clenched noticeably tighter around the hilt of his sword. For the most fleeting of moments, there was a flash that seemed to spark in his eyes. It was one Arthur Dayne recognized well. He had seen it more times than he could count, in the eyes of so many opponents he had faced off against. It was murderous.

Ser Barristan, true to his character, hid it well, and in the next moment, it had all but vanished from his expression. The practiced composure had taken hold of it, and no discernible emotion could be read from the impenetrable front he now adorned.

Despite the rising dread Arthur could feel, as he glanced past the threshold, he maintained his calm façade and responded only, "Of course, My Prince."

He did not hesitate another moment, instead taking a measured step through the doorway and crossing the distance of the king's exquisite chambers. Prince Rhaegar fell into step behind him, and, from the corner of his eye, the Dayne observed that Ser Barristan had taken to standing guard on this side of the doorframe, within the room. Arthur's piercing gaze locked on the Targaryen seated at the far end of the room, but he did not allow himself more than a split-second to assess him. Instead, he halted, still a reasonable distance from the table the man was seated behind, and he fell to one knee, his head bent in a respectful bow to King Aerys II Targaryen.

"Your Grace," he said simply.

When the Lord Commander had first sent him to observe Ser Barristan on guard duty, and had then informed him that the older knight was currently stationed guarding the king, Arthur had entertained the thought that this may very well mark his first encounter with King Aerys. It stood to reason, he had even expected as much, but what he had not expected was to have been called in to see him by Prince Rhaegar. Assuming the position of messenger did not seem appropriate for the crown prince. But, as a father who had laughed at his son's expense earlier that evening, showing delight at his humiliation rather than any paternal concern, the Dornishman reasoned that perhaps this should not surprise him.

"Ser Arthur Dayne," the king spoke. His voice was harsh, with a lining rasp to it, but there was a mirth which seemed to lie beneath his tone. "You're the famed _Sword of the Morning,_ are you? The man bold enough to offer _himself_ for a position in my Kingsguard, before there's even an opening."

It was difficult to tell if the Targaryen meant that derogatorily, or in praise. Although, perhaps it was a combination of the two.

"Rise, Ser Arthur," King Aerys instructed.

The knight did as the king bid, and when he rose, he settled his stare on the Targaryen king, ready to take his measure. He appeared quite comfortable, reclining in his chair, with a goblet of wine clutched in his spidery grip. His fingers were long and slender, adorned in rings, and the way he held the gold cup, it seemed almost possessive in nature. He wore a gold crown on his head, with red jewels, even in his inner chambers. Beneath his relaxed posture, his bright violet eyes were dancing. They looked eager, hungry, as they stared the knight up and down.

"You certainly look the part," King Aerys noted. "One look at you, and it's not hard to see why you were able to knock my son down so easily."

As he said this, Arthur glanced aside briefly, to the prince, who was now standing a few feet from him. His eyes still determinedly avoided the gaze of anyone in the room. Although his head was facing the king's direction, his defeated stare was fixed on the window behind his father, rather than on the man himself. He gave no indication he had even heard the latest insult.

"Although," the older Targaryen continued, his mocking stare now shifting to his son as well, "he could've used a sounder beating. Getting knocked into the dirt a few more times might have finally done him some good." The next instant, his violet eyes shot back to the Dornish knight, and his tone was a mixture between humored and accusatory, "Why did you stop after only the first hit, _Sword of the Morning_?"

Arthur was careful in choosing his words, just as he was careful to speak in a relaxed, practiced tone. "Our spar was cut short, Your Grace. We were both quickly met with other matters which required our attention, and it didn't seem prudent to neglect them."

"That's a shame," the king replied, but he appeared satisfied with this explanation. Now addressing his son, he mused, "You should spar with this man again, Rhaegar. Seems you could learn a thing or two from him."

"Yes, father," Prince Rhaegar returned, his tone flat, as he momentarily rested his eyes on his father for a single, conceding nod. He then resumed his previous line of sight.

"Certainly more than you've been learning from the rest of them," King Aerys continued, barely pausing long enough to allow the prince the automatic response he had given. The king's eyes seemed to drift toward the doorway then, where Arthur knew Ser Barristan was still standing guard. "They don't seem to understand what a proper teaching _is_."

The words which kept pouring from the older Targaryen's mouth were shining a vivid new light on the protectiveness which Ser Barristan had shown on the prince's behalf in the training yard that day. More than that, though, on the protectiveness which Prince Rhaegar had shown on his mentor's behalf. No one was spared the king's scorn.

Aerys II locked eyes on the Dayne once more, and he mused, with a menacing, twisted smile, "You must be waiting with bated breath for one of them to drop so you can take their place. How does it feel? Meeting all of them? Talking to them? Have you already decided which one of them you'd like to pick off, in your mind?"

Arthur resisted the instinctive urge, to allow his eyes to narrow at the king, and he instead kept the same neutral expression.

"It's an unfortunate requirement, for the position I seek," he said only.

"Unfortunate indeed," King Aerys agreed, a laugh now lining his voice. "But you _are_ ambitious. And the misfortunes of others can never stop an ambitious man."

"As you say, Your Grace," Arthur afforded the Targaryen a subtle inclination of his head.

The king appraised him with that same, twisted smile, his bright eyes approving. As he lifted the golden cup to his lips, he peered at the knight from over the rim and gave one final remark, "You'll do well in King's Landing, Ser Arthur Dayne."

A hush fell over the room as King Aerys drank his wine. In the king's silence, it almost seemed discourteous to so much as breathe. Arthur waited patiently, having noted the dismissive quality to the Targaryen's final words to him, and he briefly wondered how much longer His Grace intended to keep him here. When the king finally did speak, however, it was not to dismiss him, but, rather, to again address his heir.

"The reason I sent for you," he began, "is because there's a matter which might actually concern you. Of course," he added, and a sudden venom laced his tone, "it's expected of a man to look His King in the eye when he's talking to him."

The shift in Prince Rhaegar's expression was not lost on the Dornish knight. His dark violet eyes lit up in sudden surprise, although they flinched slightly at the biting tone his father had used against him. His demeanor adopted a glimmer of his earlier composure, and he finally managed to meet the king's gaze.

"I've been consulting with the maesters today," there was an unmistakable enthusiasm which now overtook King Aerys' voice, "and they've informed me that your mother is to expect another child. Grand Maester Pycelle has assured us that, by the looks of this one, things are very promising."

In one single moment, the prince's entire countenance was overcome by a torrent of emotions. He stared at his father, his eyes widened in shock, and it was difficult to discern if the gleam in those violet eyes was one of joy or sorrow. Hope, fear, pain, anger…his fair complexion was shadowed by them all at once. In spite of his noticeable attempts to contain his feelings, evident in his rigid posture and strained expression, Prince Rhaegar did not seem capable of hiding any of it.

"Mother…is with child again?" he struggled over the words, his voice dripping with anxiety.

"The gods have blessed our child," King Aerys announced, making little note of his son's reaction. He raised his goblet with a self-assured smile, "They smile on this pregnancy! When she comes of age, she will be your bride."

Ah. Of course… The noble Targaryen tradition.

It had managed to escape his memory at present, but Arthur supposed, for this particular ancient House, it was all but customary. King Aerys was, after all, married to his sister Rhaella. Interestingly, King Aerys's grandfather, Aegon V, had attempted to put a stop to this disturbing practice, but to little avail. The preceding two generations had taken it back up, and now, it seemed, Aerys II intended for the third generation to do the same.

However, when the knight again glanced at Prince Rhaegar, he noted that all joy had instantly fled his expression. For that matter, it had become considerably easier to pinpoint the emotion on his face. His jaw clenched, as a trembling sigh escaped his lips. His eyes burned in defiance, and his hands curled into fists at his side.

"Then I pray the gods bless me with a younger brother," he expressed darkly.

From across the dimly light room, Arthur heard the barely audible gasp that Ser Barristan emitted. The gleeful smile that the king wore had vanished in an instant at his son's voiced disobedience, and a sudden madness flared in his eyes. Arthur remained still, with the same, fixed expression in place, but he felt a rising concern for the Targaryen heir.

"The gods favor _me_!"

The king shot to his feet, slender, skeletal fingers trembling in his rage as he threw his goblet across the room, hitting his son on the head and splattering the dark red liquid over his black coat and silver hair. Prince Rhaegar barely flinched. His challenging stare was unwavering.

"Out with you!" King Aerys commanded, slamming his hand against his wine pitcher and sending it hurdling to the ground. "Get out of my sight!"

It was difficult to see the king as anything more than a petulant child. A child throwing a tantrum because someone had dared disagree with him. The apprehension Arthur had felt had swiftly dissipated the moment the king had thrown his cup.

The prince held Aerys's gaze for another moment, before bowing his head. "Have a good night, father."

He then turned from the scene and, as he walked the distance of the room, he placed a passing hand on Arthur's shoulder, indicating for the knight to depart with him. The Dornishman did so, but not before offering the king a low bow of his own. Better not to call the king's ire upon himself, as well. Unlike the crown prince, he imagined he would suffer far worse than a wine goblet to the head. Ser Barristan lingered behind until they had both safely crossed the threshold, and then proceeded to close the door after them.

The White Cloak and the prince noticeably relaxed the instant the door had shut. The air felt somehow lighter, now, as if the simple act of breathing had become easier.

"My Prince," Ser Barristan was the first to speak, his eyes trained on the young man in obvious concern. "Are you hurt?"

Arthur rested his piercing gaze on the prince's brow, where a deep red gash had been left behind. Blood trickled down the side of his face, mixing with the wine in his pale blond hair. Prince Rhaegar gingerly touched a hand to the wound, and when he lowered it, he stared indifferently at the blood on his fingertips.

"I'll be fine," the Targaryen offhandedly assured his knight. His violet eyes wandered down the length of the hall, a distant look now present in his gaze. "I need to see my mother."

"Of course," Ser Barristan nodded in understanding. "Would you like Ser Arthur to accompany you?"

Arthur silently conceded that this was a reasonable suggestion. The Kingsguard could not very well abandon his post, after all, but the prince might benefit from an escort. He was well aware that Ser Barristan was not merely concerned for the prince's physical state.

However, Prince Rhaegar quickly insisted, "That won't be necessary." His hand fell to his side. As he focused his attention on the two knights once more, a slight hint of concern crossed his gaze. "My father has no reason to retaliate against you for my actions, but if that should change, send for me immediately."

"Do not trouble yourself, My Prince," Ser Barristan contended. "You should only worry about yourself right now."

The prince shook his head but said nothing in response. Instead, he vocalized his wish for the both of them to have a pleasant evening, before taking his leave.

As Arthur stared after him, he reflected over the encounter they had just endured, at the dignified manner with which the younger man had held himself, most particularly in contrast to the king's erratic behavior, and the firm resolution behind his defiance of an ancient family tradition. The king had grown violent, the prince had stood his ground. A madness had taken the father, serenity had lingered over the son.

He was not gentle, he was patient. He was not fragile, he was calm. He did not need protecting, he was resolved to protect. There was an inner strength to him, to be sure, as _Barristan the Bold_ had affirmed, but it far outstretched to his exterior, as well. It did not matter what anyone else might tell him of the Targaryen heir, the knight had determined it for himself.

Rhaegar Targaryen was not delicate.

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

" _Your mother is to expect another child."_

Rhaegar's mind whirled with his father's words. They replayed over and over as he quickly made his way to his mother's chambers. He wished that he had been there when she find out about the pregnancy. The excitement had disappeared from her eyes long ago. It had been almost seventeen years since his birth, and in all those years, his mother had been pregnant eight times, but none of the other children survived. The maesters proclaimed that Rhaegar was lucky to have made it when the others did not, but the Targaryen did not believe in luck. If he was lucky, his parents would have never married. His mother would have never suffered at the hands of his father, and he would have never been born of their incestuous union.

It was not luck that followed the crown prince. It was fate. Fate that haunted both his dreams and his waking hours. It was something that no one could escape.

He tried to convince himself that fate was the reason his mother could not successfully bear any more children, but he knew better. It was the long line of Targaryen intermarriage that led to those complications. Over the centuries, there had been countless reports of children born with birth defects. Maegor the Cruel fathered several, which were described as _eyeless monstrosities_. Aegon II must have thanked the gods when his scaled daughter with a hole in her chest and a dragon's tail was stillborn.

His own mother had two stillbirths, and the others were either miscarriages or taken prematurely by diseases.

In the beginning, the king had been sympathetic towards his wife and even comforted her in her sorrow, but then, predictably, he grew suspicious. Rhaegar always thought it ironic that his father's first assumption was that his queen had been unfaithful when Aerys himself was the one with a mistress warming his bed every night. Of course, when the man's paranoia turned towards his mistress, all thoughts of calling his father a hypocrite escaped the young prince. He still remembered the horror he felt when he learned that his father had the poor girl and her family tortured to death.

That had been less than a year ago, after Jaehaerys' frail body was claimed by fever. The prince feared where his father's wrath would fall if this child was also taken from him.

Rhaegar sighed. All his life, he longed for a sibling. He would spare himself significant pain if he was not so optimistic about every pregnancy, but he could never stop himself from hoping. Apart from his father's determination to have him marry within the Targaryen bloodline, the prince would actually be happy with a sister, but it was foolish to dream of a normal sibling relationship with her, so he tried to believe in luck and hoped his mother gave birth to a healthy boy.

Finally reaching his destination, Rhaegar wasted no time in pushing open the door and stepping inside. The negative feelings brought on by his father instantly left him when he saw his mother, resting comfortably in an armchair by the fireplace. She cradled a mug between her palms, the steam rising from the hot beverage to waft around her face. She sat in the chair facing the door and her face instantly lit up when she saw her son.

Rhaegar smiled warmly in return, "Hello, mother."

"Rhaegar," she said through a contented sigh. Not a moment later, however, as her eyes assessed his appearance, her brow creased with worry, and she rose from her armchair in a start. "Dearest, what's happened?" she asked, walking the short distance to her son and placing a delicate hand to his brow.

The prince's violet eyes lowered, feeling ashamed in the face of her concern. He should have cleaned his appearance before coming to see her, but because of his thoughtlessness, he had caused his mother unnecessary worry. Raising a hand to hers, he slowly pulled it away from his face.

"It's nothing," Rhaegar automatically assured her, attempting another smile. Knowing that would never convince her, however, he added quietly, "I saw father."

"He did this to you?" the queen asked, as she tightened her hand around his. "What was it this time?"

In Aerys's defense, he was rarely physically violent with his heir. Only when his son openly defied him and invoked the king's anger did the blows shift from mere words.

Rhaegar hesitated. He knew nothing other than the truth would satisfy his mother, but voicing the subject would only upset her. After all, she had been forced to marry her own brother all those years ago, when all hope for a happy future was torn away. The only pure joy in her life came from her child.

He stared at their joined hands and offered her a comforting squeeze before answering.

"He told me about the pregnancy," the younger Targaryen said through a sigh. "And I disagreed with his desire for a daughter."

Rhaella stared up at her son as a sad understanding overtook her amethyst gaze. "I know you don't want that," she told him, with a gentle nod. "This isn't a life I would ever desire for you. But…you shouldn't worry yourself over that. Not now. If, when the time comes, the gods bless us with a daughter, and if they are kind to her, then…then, perhaps, we can worry."

" _The gods favor me!"_

Rhaegar had never wanted his father to be more wrong. He prayed, just this once, that the man's jealousy would be well-founded. If the gods truly favored Aerys II, that would be the end of his defiance. He could not escape the marriage, even if it was what he wanted. His father would ensure that their union was a success, and he would not waste a moment before demanding grandchildren. Rhaegar's life had already been planned. The only way out would be to run away, but that was never an option for the young prince. He could not subject the people of the Seven Kingdoms solely to the mercy of his father, and he could not leave his mother alone either. For their sake, he could bear suffering at the king's hands.

Aerys would not rule forever, and when the time came, Rhaegar would take his place on the Iron Throne. He could change things, then. He could lead the realm into an era of peace…he could also lead them against the Army of the Dead that loomed mercilessly in the future.

"The future scares me more than anything," the prince muttered.

He released his hold on his mother and stepped around her to the chair adjacent to hers. He lowered himself in front of the dancing fire, but his gaze was obstructed by images of swirling snow and ice blue eyes. He had to be prepared by the time that foreboding threat came for them all. He just hoped he had enough time.

Rhaegar was torn from his thoughts by a sudden pressure against his brow. Lifting his gaze, he realized his mother had followed him to the hearth, and she was now tending to his wound with a damp handkerchief. He uttered his gratitude, before gently taking the cloth in his own hand and wiping away the remaining blood. The queen awarded her son an approving nod, and then reclaimed her seat across from him.

She was worried about him, but she also held concern for the child she was carrying. He should not be selfishly plagued by the future while in her company. Instead, he could offer her comfort in the present.

A smile eased its way onto his face as he considered the woman across from him. She was braver than he could ever hope to be. Her burdens were great, but she always held her head high. Rhaella Targaryen was the perfect queen to an imperfect king. He imagined her happiness if the baby was born and survived.

"Have you thought of a name yet?"

Her own smile returned at the sight of her son's, but she shook her head in response to his inquiry, "Not yet. I haven't given it much thought, but I'll come up with something." With a slight twinkle in her eye, she added, "A good, strong name, for a strong son."

Rhaegar's smile widened, as he felt an overwhelming love and appreciation for his mother. He was ungrateful when he cursed his existence. If he had not been the heir of King Aerys, he would not have been the son of Queen Rhaella. A single moment in her presence made the shame from his father bearable. She was a never-ending light in his dark world.

"Well, you chose a strong name for me, and the gods smiled at you," the Targaryen assured her, guarding his mind against all thoughts of his birth and weakness by concentrating more on his strong namesake, Rhaenys Targaryen, than on himself. "They wouldn't deny you again, not after choosing a perfect name."

"It has to be perfect, then, does it?" she asked, humor now lighting her purple eyes. "Hm…," she pondered then, slowly letting her lids fall shut as she lifted her warm mug to her lips and took a slow, pensive drink. When she had again lowered her beverage, there was a fond smile on her face as she met her son's dark gaze.

"Viserys, then," she decided simply. "That's a perfect name, don't you think? For the brother of Rhaegar?"

"Viserys…," he repeated slowly, testing the name on his tongue and delighting in the sound of it.

He felt a new excitement rise within him. If Rhaenys and Visenya could survive as siblings, why not Rhaegar and Viserys? Rhaegar was surprised by how appealing that thought was. Viserys now had the perfect name, so he _had_ to live. It was a childish mindset, but he could not find it in himself to care. His desire for a younger brother came before his pride.

The prince released a soft laugh, then. "It's a perfect name, mother. He'll be even stronger than me."

Visenya was the warrior, after all. Not Rhaenys.

His violet eyes fell to his mother's stomach, where he knew his sibling was just beginning to grow. "I can't wait to meet my little brother."


	4. The Prince's Decision

Back to the Start

Chapter IV

"The Prince's Decision"

…

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

An all-encompassing darkness shrouded the world. A thin layer of fog obstructed whatever gentle illumination the crescent moon would have cast. Even the torchlights that lined the walkway had been snuffed out, at this hour. There was a quiet stillness that had finally settled over the bustling city of King's Landing.

Not that it would last.

Within an hour or two, when dawn broke over the horizon, life would return, and the noise would commence, with a renewed vigor. Lords and common folk alike would take to the streets, going about their daily business, each careful not to tread too closely to the other. For a city which boasted such a tremendous blend of classes, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms was one of the most distinctly divided places that Arthur had ever beheld. The rich preyed on the poor, and the poor despised them for it. The rich bickered amongst the themselves over religious and regional differences, while the poor fought amongst themselves over the discarded scrap of bread or the warmest place to sleep. There were divisions in all areas of the world, this was true, but in King's Landing especially, bigotry thrived.

For a few silent hours, however, none of that mattered. They were all asleep, and their worries slumbered with them. And it was these few silent hours, the last remnants of nightfall before dawn, as light slowly crept back over the world, that Arthur Dayne enjoyed most of all.

After Prince Rhaegar had departed from the king's chambers the night before, Arthur had remained with Ser Barristan until his relief had arrived, in the form of Prince Lewyn Martell. Both men had then taken their leave, and they had parted ways, with the White Cloak returning to the White Sword Tower, and Arthur to his room in the guard tower. He had allotted himself several hours of rest, and the bed had been a welcome reprieve from the many events of the long day before, but he had roused himself a few hours before dawn, as he was often wont to do. He had dressed and then taken to the path he had memorized the day before, when the guard who had escorted him into King's Landing had led him to the tower of the Kingsguard, where he was arriving at present.

He did not enter, though. He walked past it, toward the training yard beyond, which he had been expressly informed by both Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold that he was free to utilize at his own leisure. He came to a halt in his steps at the far end of the courtyard.

His piercing blue eyes stared out over the side of the Red Keep, at the steep cliffside and the crashing waves of the sea far below. When he breathed in, there was a distinct saltiness carried by the wind, and it brought a faint smile to the corner of his mouth. The air was colder, the people were louder, and the overall dominion of the temperamental leader was far less orderly, but this, at least, was familiar. The scent of salt in the air, the sound of crashing waves, and the swift feeling of the breeze rushing past. If he did not know better, he could be back in Starfall, standing in the one of the high towers. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it.

The smile lingered as the knight retreated several paces from the cliffside, toward the center of the courtyard. He lifted his hand and tightened his fingers securely around his family's ancestral sword at his side. The sword he had finally earned for himself, after many years of constant devotion, of tireless training. He would never be able to put into words how it had felt, the day the blade had finally been taken down from its long slumber on the wall, and when he had first held _Dawn_ in his hands.

He had felt…complete.

Even now, however many times he drew the blade, he never felt more at peace, more at one with himself, than when he was holding _Dawn_. He was not sure he believed in fate, but it did sometimes feel as though this was always meant to be. As though, slumbering somewhere deep inside of him, he had always been _the Sword of the Morning_. As though _Dawn_ was always meant to be a part of him.

No point in speculating, though. The point was, the sword felt natural in his hand.

With one swift movement, he drew the blade and gave it a series of quick, practice swings. First in his left hand, then his right, until finally his left again. He cleared all other thoughts from his mind and focused entirely on the present task. On his present training.

It was not long, however, before the distant sound of footsteps caught his attention, and his hand fell still. Arthur shifted his gaze, in the direction of the quiet disturbance, and, though it took him a moment to properly recognize him in the dark, that platinum hair was unmistakable. He once again found himself surprised by the Targaryen prince's presence. He had been seeing far more of him than he would have anticipated within the span of a single day—not even a full day, in fact—and he was not quite sure what to make of it.

At the prince's approach, he lowered _Dawn_ to his side, before crossing the remaining distance of the yard to award the Targaryen heir a respectful bow of his head.

"My Prince," he greeted.

He locked his blue eyes on the younger man's countenance, now that he was standing close enough to accurately inspect him, and he noted that a shadow seemed to hang over the prince's eyes. He was wearing a change of clothes, and the wound on his head had been tended to, which left him to assume that he had been to his room the night before at some point, but something about his visage left Arthur with a rising suspicion. Had he slept at _all_?

"I'll admit," the Dayne added, "I'm a little surprised to see you out here. Especially at this hour."

"A walk in the cool air is far more relaxing than sleep at this hour," Prince Rhaegar responded, as a sigh of contentment escaped his lips. "It's much easier to think in the early silence."

"You find walking alone with your thoughts more relaxing than sleep?" a single brow shot up as Arthur continued to watch the other man closely. This was certainly an intriguing revelation.

A distant look appeared in the prince's dark eyes, even as he dismissively explained, "I find many things more relaxing than sleep." He focused a pointed stare back on Arthur as he mused, "Now, I can't say I'm at all surprised to find _you_ out here so early. If there's one quality that links every _Sword of the Morning_ , both past and present, it is their dedication."

"Well," Arthur allowed a faint smirk as he remarked, "that only stands to reason. The title _Sword of the Morning_ can't very well be earned without it."

"You're quite right," the prince agreed with a conceding nod. "The message of the title would be meaningless without the prior effort." His voice sounded distant, reflective, as he mused, "Only a Dayne who has proven that dedication through his superior skill can be worthy of wielding _Dawn_. It's a unique tradition in our world. One that I have admired for many years."

As his gaze seemed to return to the man standing in front of him, Prince Rhaegar pressed, "Tell me, Ser Arthur…when did your dream become that legendary sword in your grasp?"

At this, the knight's eyes lowered, to the sword in his hand, where he felt his grip instinctively flex tighter around the hilt.

"It never…became my dream," he answered truthfully. "For as long as I can remember, it already was. I was always looking up at it, hanging on the wall, so I suppose that's why I can't remember the first time I set my sights on it. I think it's a common thing, though. Dreaming of wielding your family's sword. I know my brother wanted it, and my father before him. Many of my cousins did, as well. It was little more than a passing thought to most of them, though—they entertained it, they even exerted some effort toward achieving it, but that was all. I was determined to make my dream a reality, though. And so, I did."

A silence fell over the prince when Arthur had concluded, and as it drew on, the Dornishman again lifted his eyes to fix his stare on the Targaryen. He appeared to be in the midst of some deep contemplation, but as he stared at the knight, there was something distinctively different in the way he was now regarding him. A new light had come over those dark violet eyes.

"You're much more than I expected, Arthur Dayne."

There was a subtle fondness in his voice as he spoke, which shifted to resignation as he bowed his head, "And it seems you finally made your point. My training has indeed been insufficient, but it is not Ser Barristan or Ser Gerold who are to blame. Ultimately, I am the one at fault. I became a squire for a singular purpose, yet continued to hold myself back because I lacked the resolve to make that dream into a reality. I was frustrated with my slow progress…but I was also content. I could have pushed myself many years ago, but I didn't want to. My dream isn't about my feelings, though. It isn't about Ser Barristan's concern for me, either, and it certainly isn't about my father. It is about responsibility. Fighting is something I _have_ to do, so I need to remove my contentment and dedicate myself entirely to my training."

At the prince's admission and, ultimately, his resolution, Arthur once again found himself in a state of astonishment. He had not expected the Targaryen's line of questioning would lead him here, or that his own stance on the matter would prove inspirational to the man who had looked so content to read his book under the shade of a tree. Not that he disagreed with the conclusion the prince had come to. It was, after all, the very point he himself had been trying to make on multiple occasions only the day before. Even so, he had not expected to sway Prince Rhaegar's perspective within such short a time.

He supposed, though, that this did align with a previous conclusion he had drawn about the prince. That he was willing to put his own personal feelings aside. He had a strong sense of duty, and, more than this, he had a firm resolve. An inner strength, as Ser Barristan had put it, and the stubbornness to see it through.

"If it is your responsibility," Arthur stated, with a single, decisive nod of his head, "then I agree. It demands your full commitment."

"I'm not surprised to hear you say that," Prince Rhaegar replied, as the previous fondness returned to his voice.

The next moment, however, as the prince allowed a brief pause to fall between them once more, he noticeably stiffened. His stare wavered, from its practiced position on the Dornishman, and although his head tilted upward, there was of an air of discomfort behind the action.

"Anyway, I…," he visibly strained to force the next few words out, and there was an abruptness in his voice, "have a favor to ask of you. You are, of course, free to refuse, but I'm not worried about you accepting just because I'm the prince."

"Well, it is always nice to see that I've left an impression," Arthur allowed a faint smirk, even as he was filled with a rising curiosity. Not only regarding the prince's request, but his behavior as well. "What is this favor?"

Violet eyes wandered around the length of the courtyard, the Targaryen somehow showing more interest in his surroundings than the man standing directly in his line of sight.

The prince hesitated another moment, before he finally admitted, "I have spent the better part of the last few hours debating this idea, and I realized how strongly I agree with your method." Through what appeared a great force of will, he brought his eyes to rest on the Dornish knight once more, as he told him, "If you accept, I would be honored to train under you."

"You…want to train under _me_?" Arthur questioned, unable to hide his disbelief.

"Yes," Prince Rhaegar responded simply. "I do."

The Dayne regarded the man in silence a moment, his piercing blue eyes measuring his expression, his bearing, his level of conviction. There was a resolute finality to his words. To his tone. However doubtful the knight felt, he found he could not doubt what he was seeing. It was standing directly in front of him, after all, with a blinding certainty. If the prince did agree with his method, as he claimed, it only stood to reason that he would ask Arthur to train him. After all, as he had been informed—by King Aerys, by Ser Barristan, and, of course, by the rest of the Kingsguard—no one had been willing to properly instruct the crown prince. He had been made a squire, but no one had treated him as a proper squire until yesterday afternoon.

If he was resolved to learn how to fight, and to learn well, Arthur Dayne was more than willing to provide that instruction.

"You realize what you're asking, I trust," the knight titled his head to one side, as he continued to scrutinize the young prince. "If you ask me to train you, then I'm not going to hold back. I'm going to be every bit as demanding with your training as I am with my own. Are you sure you're prepared for that?"

"I can't say that I am," the prince confessed. "I know next to nothing about your training routine, Ser Arthur, but I'm determined nonetheless. I am here to learn."

Arthur stared at him one final moment, before offering a subtle bow of his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, then, My Prince," he told him. "I accept."

Without waiting for Prince Rhaegar's reaction, the knight turned and walked several paces, back the way he had come before the younger man had approached him, until he was again standing in the center of the training yard. He then brought his full attention to focus squarely on the Targaryen heir, even as he lifted _Dawn_ at his side.

"Let's begin," he said simply.

A single glance at the prince when he had first arrived had already determined that he had come unarmed. This would need to be rectified in the future, but for now, they would have to make do. Arthur therefore took it upon himself to offer a swift gesture toward the weapon rack at the far end of the yard.

"Choose a sword," he instructed.

The squire narrowed his eyes in confusion at the knight, and he was rendered immobile for a passing moment. It was obvious that, when he had made his request, he had not anticipated that his training would begin immediately. Nevertheless, he quickly broke himself out of the reverie with a slow, uncertain nod. He crossed the distance of the courtyard and lifted the first sword in reach, before promptly moving to stand in front of his new mentor. Arthur allowed a smile to ease onto his expression as he observed the prince's readiness to adjust to this unforeseen training session.

"In the future," the knight informed him, "you should always be prepared. The Targaryen heir wandering alone in the dark, unarmed, makes for an easy target. Even within these walls, you can never be certain. Better to always carry a weapon with you. Its presence alone can even decrease the actual need to use one."

Prince Rhaegar glanced down briefly to the sword in his hand, a frown in place. "Is that a suggestion or part of the training?"

"From this point onward, it would be best if you took everything I say as a part of your training," Arthur replied simply. "Also, you should never take your eyes off your opponent."

"My opponent?" as the prince's eyes returned to the knight, his brow was drawn in confusion. "I wasn't aware that we had already started."

"I did say: _let's begin_ ," the Dayne reminded him, as he gave his own sword a quick spin. "That makes me your opponent. And I also told you to always be prepared. With all due respect, My Prince, if you are to train under me, then I'm going to have to ask you to listen to me a little better."

He did not wait for the Targaryen's response. Instead, he struck at the prince with the broad side of his sword, and the younger man, still bewildered, with his mouth half-open for a reply, did not manage to lift his blade in time. He instead took the full force of the hit with the side of his abdomen. He stumbled backwards several paces, instinctively raising a hand to cradle his side, as he stared up at the knight with eyes widened in surprise.

Not a moment later, however, Prince Rhaegar's expression hardened, his violet eyes narrowing as his sword hand tightened in its grip around the hilt. He had all but banished the confusion from his countenance, as he straightened in his stance and focused intently on the Dornish knight.

A smile again tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, as he instructed the prince, "Come at me."

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

"My Prince!"

The sound of a door slamming accompanied by a blaring voice abruptly roused Rhaegar from his slumber. He instinctively flinched in reaction to the sudden noise, tensing as his deep violet eyes shot open. Fear instantly washed over him while his mind conjured disturbing images of his intruder, but only a moment later he adjusted to his surroundings and the bleariness cleared from his gaze. He recognized the distinct flaming red hair of Jon Connington as the man stood over him.

The Targaryen released a shaky exhale, cursing under his breath, when his friend's voice echoed around the room once more.

"So it's true! Oh, Rhaegar…are you alright?"

Jon reached a hand toward the prince's face, delicately brushing his fingertips along his cheek. Rhaegar's jaw clenched, the contact instilling a throbbing pain, as he swiftly recoiled from the touch. He hurriedly turned away from the concerned, rejected expression now present on his companion's face, instead directing his gaze towards the vanity across the room. His eyes widened as he observed his reflection.

Disheveled hair was a common consequence of his habitually restless sleep, but he had rested soundly for the first time in months and there were only a few hairs out of place. He noted the purplish discoloration on his forehead and cheek, realizing that the aching sensation was produced by those bruises. He lifted a hand and ran it lightly along the injuries, his feelings mixed between amazement and disgust. This was the first time the young prince could remember seeing a defective face reflected back at him.

The corner of Rhaegar's mouth pulled upward slightly as he wondered if his father might finally smile at him when he witnessed his son's imperfect complexion, but it fell into a frown when his hand hovered over the thin scar along his brow, a reminder of the king's contempt. The fleeting, delusional fantasy slipped away as quickly as it had arrived, and his eyes swelled in accordance with the pained emotion he felt constricting in his chest.

A subtle movement to his left reminded the Targaryen heir that he was not alone, and he roughly wiped the sadness from his expression. Not only was he showing weakness, but he was also behaving like a child. Training with Ser Arthur had nothing to do with his father. The wounds he had sustained only a few hours prior were a testament to his evolvement as both a fighter and a protector.

After shaking his head, Rhaegar pushed himself off the bed to stand opposite Jon. Once he was certain he could maintain a steady voice, he finally met his friend's gaze and answered his earlier inquiry.

"Don't get protective over this, Jon. I was only training."

" _Training_?!" Jon's pitch rose with his aggravation. "You call _this_ training?! Look at what he _did_ to you!"

"This is what happens to _everyone_!" Rhaegar's own voice intensified to match the redhead's, his repressed frustration escaping before he could think to stop it. "I've spent _years_ watching everyone other than me being pushed into the dirt and walking away from the training yard with bruises on their faces. I remember the day _you_ were injured so horribly that I had to carry you back to your chambers. Why does _my_ training have to be any different? Can't I have an injury without you treating me like I'm broken?"

Rhaegar felt regret as soon as the final words left his mouth. He watched as Jon was visibly affronted, his mouth slightly agape. The young Connington was rarely at a loss for words, but in a single instant, his friend had rendered him speechless.

It was unfair to release his anger on Jon. The prince was shamed by his recent display of emotion and overwhelmed by the events from the past two days, but that was no excuse. He understood exactly why his training was so drastically different from the other squires, and it was because of that knowledge that he refused to complain. He would have continued to carry his irritation in silence if Ser Arthur had not arrived in King's Landing, but requesting to train under him was inevitably going to stir contention with Jon.

His friend's concern was Rhaegar's fault for not anticipating that consequence.

"I never said you were broken, My Prince," Jon spoke in a softer tone now, and his pale blue eyes had fallen to the ground. "But…there's a reason your training should be different. You _are_ different."

Rhaegar released a long sigh, his shoulders tensing as he struggled to contain himself.

"…I know," he responded lowly, hanging his head in acceptance. "I know I'm a prince, and there are certain responsibilities that coincide with my position. No matter where I go, I will always be Prince Rhaegar. I will be treated differently, but…," he found himself exhaling again and shook his head, deciding against voicing the rest of his thoughts.

His father had spared Ser Arthur. He believed there was a greater reason for that, particularly because the Dornish knight was the first person to take a risk and treat the Targaryen prince as an equal. He could become a warrior now, just as he had planned since he was a child. He considered that he may merely be receptive to Arthur Dayne's presence because it happened to align with his desire to be normal, but the situation was far too coincidental to be anything other than fate.

Resting his gaze on the sulking occupant in the room, a fond smile made its way to Rhaegar's face. Stepping around the foot of the bed, he stood beside Jon and, after a brief hesitation, he nudged his arm lightly with his elbow.

He waited for the familiar blue gaze to meet his before speaking, "I was wrong to yell at you. It was uncalled for, and I fear that I do it far too often. I…," he wavered momentarily, before forcing himself to continue his apology, "can't seem to handle your concern for me. I'm sorry that I always react so harshly."

"No…it's alright," Jon assured him, and he awarded the prince a returning smile of his own. "I understand. I know how much you dislike being treated differently. I know how much you dislike _being_ different. And I know how frustrated it can make you. I wasn't being considerate, and I wasn't…," he trailed off briefly, as his eyes again wandered over Rhaegar's countenance. With a slow, heavy shake of his head, he finished, "I wasn't taking your current state into account."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in reaction to his friend's final comment, again reminded of his current physical appearance, but he brushed away the distress. Focusing on his father's disappointment would only pull him deeper into his melancholy, and at the moment, he had to use his energy to ensure that Jon did not feel unreasonably responsible for this predicament.

"My current state is no excuse," the prince pressed, shaking his head, before a faint chuckle escaped him. "Although, I can certainly understand how surprising it is to see me like this."

"It isn't a laughing matter, Rhaegar," Jon frowned. "It _is_ surprising. This shouldn't have happened, in the first place. I understand your desire to be treated the same as everyone else, but you're _not_ the same. Anyone else would have known that. They would have known better, they wouldn't have done this to you! This…," he trailed off, his narrowing his eyes into a glare. When he spoke again, his words came out in a furious tremble, "This is all _his_ fault!"

His hands were curled into fists at his side, and with a single sweeping motion, he turned from his friend and stormed from the room.

The Targaryen stared after him, staggered by the sudden fury the redhead expressed, but he blinked away the shock and ran after him. After catching up to the fuming individual, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him in his haste down the corridor.

"Jon, where are you going?"

"I'm going to go put an end to this!" the young lord exclaimed. He stepped out of Rhaegar's hold on him, as he met his stare in determination. "Don't try to stop me. This is for your own good."

Before the prince had a chance to voice his disapproval, Jon had already rushed from his side, continuing his charge. Rhaegar closed his eyes, taking a brief moment to compose himself, before quickly following the loud echo of his footfalls.

He trailed after the younger man down a series of corridors throughout the Red Keep, each one familiar and filled with memories, but none of them provided insight to Jon's final destination. At first, Rhaegar wondered if the young Connington would approach the king about the situation, but his friend knew better than that. Aerys had permitted Arthur's training methods once before, which was a clear indication that he would do nothing to stop it from happening again.

That left the Targaryen to assume Jon intended to address the Dornish knight personally, but such an endeavor would be pointless. Rhaegar had promptly learned that Ser Arthur was a man who stood by his convictions, and his decision to train the crown prince was not made lightly. He was stubborn, and Jon yelling about his decision would hardly faze the man. Only someone with higher authority could sway Ser Arthur.

As they reached the familiar path that led to the White Sword Tower, Rhaegar internally sighed. His friend's plan was entirely apparent now, and it appeared his last assessment had been correct. Jon wanted to forcefully end his training by telling Ser Gerold, but the prince wondered if the redhead really knew who the Lord Commander was. He would not stop something just because _Jon_ told him to.

Jon wasted no time in slamming the doors open and proceeding into the Round Room. Ser Gerold was, unsurprisingly, seated at the table with several documents in front of him when he was met with this abrupt interruption. He stood and started to lower his head in a habitual bow, but he was noticeably taken aback when his eyes fell on the Targaryen heir.

"Prince Rhaegar," he began, his tone mirroring his surprise as he greeted him. When his gaze shifted, however, to the breathless figure at his side, he spoke with a deadpan. "Jon."

"Lord Commander!" his squire returned in a fluster, but he paused to take a breath and hold a hand to his side. When he had recovered enough to speak, his words came out in a verbal onslaught, "This cannot stand! You see…you see what that man has _done_ to Rhaegar?! To our _prince_?! It cannot be permitted to continue! He was met with no retribution for his actions yesterday, and now look at what's come of it! You need to put a stop to this!"

"Do I?" Ser Gerold questioned dryly. "As I understand it, this was our prince's decision." His eyes again shifting to Rhaegar, he told him, "Ser Arthur told me how you approached him this morning and requested to train under him. Given the result of yesterday's events, I had already begun to wonder, myself, if a change should be made to your instruction. The way I see it," he again turned to address Jon, "Prince Rhaegar is free to train under whomever he wishes."

The Targaryen smiled, once again appreciating the Lord Commander's firm resolve. This change seemed agreeable to Ser Gerold. He was always aware of the delicate situation surrounding the prince's training, understanding the risks and limitations that seemed to exist. Now that the threat of death no longer hung over them, the Kingsguard were free to practice with him according to their personal approaches. Ser Barristan's method would most likely remain unchanged, but Rhaegar would be less frustrated with it if he was receiving more challenging instructions from the others.

Jon, on the other hand, was far less pleased.

"You cannot be serious!" he yelled at the White Cloak. "You're actually going to _condone_ his actions?"

"I happen to _approve_ of his methods," Ser Gerold stated. "The outcome of his training speaks for itself. If he's willing to show our prince the same courtesy he's shown himself, I eagerly await the results."

"There are other ways for the prince to learn!" Jon countered.

"And yet, this is our prince's decision," Ser Gerold reiterated. "I don't want to hear another word about it."

Entirely unmoved by the warning that lined the Lord Commander's tone, Jon exclaimed, "You cannot expect me to remain quiet about this!"

"I _can_ expect it," the knight returned, and his stare hardened on the younger man. "And I _do_. Perhaps Prince Rhaegar is not the only one who can benefit from harsher instruction. You seem to forget your place, Jon."

Rhaegar exhaled lowly and took an involuntary step towards the door, wanting to remain as far from the conflict as possible. Ser Gerold was correct in his argument, it _was_ his decision to train under Ser Arthur. That was a point that frustratingly seemed to escape Jon. Sometimes, the man truly came across as believing the prince was incapable of making his own decisions. He did not even properly fault him for yelling only a few minutes prior, instead blaming the emotional outburst on his injuries.

However, that was not enough for the prince to wish any harm on his impetuous friend. He _was_ merely arguing out of concern, but that did not earn him the right to speak to the Lord Commander with such insolence. Rhaegar would feel responsible for any punishment Jon received for his disrespectful behavior, but he could not argue with Ser Gerold's decision.

"I believe _you_ forget _your_ place, ser!" the young lord's tone was accusatory. "You are a Kingsguard, are you not? It is your duty to _protect_ the king and his family—not to allow _this_!" at the last word, Jon gestured vehemently toward the retreating prince.

"It is not your place to question what I should or should not allow," the Lord Commander stated, his voice stony and cutting. At the sound of it, his words finally seemed to reach the young Connington, who shrunk beneath his gaze. "I will not hear another word about this from you, and you _will_ remember to show the proper respect when speaking to your superiors. When you leave this room—and when I dismiss you, you _will_ leave this room—you will report to Ser Arthur and tell him that I have sent you to train under him. You will attend to your squiring duties under his guidance for the next three weeks. Then, if I believe you have remembered your place, you may resume your training under me. Is that understood?"

Despite the glare he was now casting the older knight, despite the trembling hands at his side, Jon managed a stiff nod.

"Good," Ser Gerold said only. "You will find Ser Arthur in the training yard. You are dismissed."

Rhaegar glanced warily at the hothead beside him, hoping that he was not foolish enough to say anything further to the Lord Commander. Fortunately, Jon grasped the seriousness of his self-inflicted dilemma and remained silent, turning on his heel and marching out of the room. The prince waited for his footsteps to fade down the corridor before looking to Ser Gerold with a forlorn expression.

"He should have never spoken to you that way," Rhaegar began quietly. "I apologize for his behavior. He's only acting this way because of me."

"Jon is acting this way because Jon is acting this way," Ser Gerold stated dryly, with a dismissive air to his tone as he walked around the table to begin gathering the documents strewn about into a single pile. He paused, as he exhaled a frustrated sigh, before lifting his gaze to rest on the crown prince once more. "You are not responsible for his actions. Don't feel responsible for his punishment."

Rhaegar frowned, mentally arguing with the Lord Commander's statement, but he chose against voicing those thoughts. Even if he had not witnessed Jon's earlier display, he knew better than to disagree with the older knight. He simply nodded in response.

The White Cloak returned the prince's nod, but his eyes lingered, assessing his physical appearance. "I have to admit, when Ser Arthur told me that you had trained with him this morning, this isn't what I expected."

"Well…," the Targaryen started, realizing then that he had only evaluated the damage done to his face.

Lowering his violet gaze, he took in the disorderly state of his clothes, which he remembered falling asleep in shortly after training that morning. There was an obvious collection of dirt stains and tears assorted along his black shirt and pants, and his boots were similarly in disarray. There was also a stiffness in his back that he had not recognized before, as well as a slight gash in his forearm.

The prince blinked, astonished by his lack of observation. Training with Ser Arthur while sleep deprived was one of the worst ideas he ever had. He would have to account for that in the future. It was strange, really. After recalling his actions and motivations from that morning, he suddenly felt less responsible for Jon's consequence. In fact, he felt a renewed certainty and resolve.

He returned his gaze to Ser Gerold, then, his mouth forming into a small smirk, "It's not what I expected either, Lord Commander, but I can't say I regret my decision."

"That's good to hear," the older knight gave him a single nod of his head. A hint of a smile had returned to his countenance. "You shouldn't regret your decision. It was well made. From everything Lewyn has told me, he's a fine man, and his skill at swordplay is almost without equal. Unfortunately, I haven't actually had the chance to observe it myself."

Rhaegar's smirk widened, the sudden idea that crossed his mind far too enticing to reject. "That _is_ unfortunate, ser, but such a thing can be easily fixed. Are you busy now?"

A brow shot up as the Lord Commander observed the prince, but he merely gave a subtle shake of his head in return.

"Not too busy, not anymore," he said simply. Abandoning the papers on the round table, he crossed the distance of the room to stand beside Rhaegar, as a rising amusement lit his eyes. Gesturing toward the open doorway, he suggested, "Shall we?"

"Why not?" the Targaryen returned, stepping over the threshold and into the adjoining hall. He led the way through the following door, which opened onto an arched walkway that would take them back to the castle. He turned right, however, under the first stone arch and strode directly into the training yard.

Rhaegar instantly recognized the distinctive bellowing sound of Jon's yell accompanied by a clash of steel. The prince spotted him easily, standing in the middle of the yard, his red hair even more vibrant in the glow of the afternoon sun. The young lord appeared to be short on breath, his energy wasted on shouting and the overexuberance of his swings, which Ser Arthur effortlessly deflected.

Glancing to the side, he noticed three familiar figures reclining against the low wall that lined the side of the courtyard. Oswell's expression was filled with glee as he watched the spar from his perch on top of the wall. To his right, stood Harlan. His eyes danced with excitement, and he lifted his tankard of ale every so often as he cheered shamelessly for _the_ _Sword of the Morning_. The Dornishman to Oswell's left shook his head at the elderly White Cloak, laughing in amusement as he rested his weight against the side of the shaded tree.

The Targaryen heir crossed the distance of the yard, and after a few short strides, he stood beside the jubilant trio with Ser Gerold.

"Lord Commander!" Oswell called with a grin. "It's good you're here, maybe you can help shed some light on this for us. Jon barged out here screaming that Arthur _had_ to train him, and then he started attacking."

"Yes, he attacked poor Arthur out of nowhere," Harlan chimed in, as he shook his head in disappointment.

Opening his mouth to comment further, Oswell was instantly cut short when his eyes landed on the prince. They widened in astonishment. "Prince Rhaegar? I hardly recognized you for a minute. What happened to _you_?"

Rhaegar smiled, as he considered what a surprise his current state must be for these men who had known him for years. He merely gestured toward the fighting Dayne in response. "Arthur."

Harlan's eyes lit up at the suggestion, glancing back and forth between the prince and the knight. An impish smile eased its way onto his face, then, as he leaned closer to Oswell.

"Oswell, _now_ I know what happened!" he whispered aside to his fellow White Cloak. " _It_ must have happened between Arthur and Rhaegar last night. And, somehow, our beloved Jon found out and he's _jealous_. Don't you see? This isn't just any spar. Jon is _still_ trying to win the silver prince's heart."

" _Ahhh_ ," revelation seemed to overtake Oswell's entire countenance, as he glanced between the pair in the yard and Rhaegar. His mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. "I see it, now. It all makes sense. _That's_ why Jon ran out here in such a rage, and why he _demanded_ to fight him!" His voice dropping an octave lower, he added, "And did you see the prince's smile just now?"

Rhaegar rolled his eyes. One of their favorite rumors to discuss was his potential affiliations with other men. He had become mostly indifferent to their joking suspicions, but withholding a reaction was much harder when the conversation was centered around Jon. They were all aware of the man's one-sided affection for the prince, which was already difficult on his friend, but their mockery made it worse. It also reminded Rhaegar of the feelings he constantly tried to ignore for the sake of their friendship. Remaining silent about the younger man's adoration was the best he could do.

"I _did_ ," Harlan's tone was heavy with his enthusiasm. He lifted a finger and pointed to the disheveled prince beside them. "And just _look_ at him! The bruises, the ripped clothes, the scratches on his arm…Arthur must be quite the animal between the sheets. His inner beast was released on the dragon."

"I _did_ see a glimpse of that passion in the yard yesterday," Oswell had to fight down his laughter. "He clearly left Rhaegar hungry for more, and it all came crashing together in the heat of the night. It's strange, though…Arthur doesn't have a scratch on him."

"That we can _see_ ," Harlan pointed out, slowly sliding his gaze to the Dornish knight. "They might be hiding beneath the clothes. Unlike our prince, Arthur is _much_ more secretive. He changed his clothes, he gave us a believable alibi that they were _training_ this morning, and he hid the signs of their torrid affair. I bet that if Arthur took off his shirt, we would find the evidence."

"I wouldn't mind seeing that," Lewyn inserted from beneath the tree, his voice dropping to a suggestive rasp. "Do you think we could convince both of them to remove their clothes?"

" _Both_ of them?" Oswell's eyes lit up at this idea. "Now, wouldn't _that_ be something? I don't think _I_ would mind seeing that, either."

"Neither would I, but I don't know if I could handle it," Harlan choked on his laughter, his hands flapping frantically. "But I want to."

" _Almost_ as much as they wanted to," Oswell shot Lewyn a wink. His voice again lowered to a whisper, as he remarked, "I mean, do you _see_ those dirt stains on Rhaegar's knees? I'd say _the Sword of the Morning_ made our prince kneel."

The Targaryen's hands clenched into fists, trembling as they hung by his sides.

"That's enough!" Rhaegar's abrupt exclamation interrupted their laughter, and three pairs of eyes immediately focused on him.

He was wrong. How could he have _ever_ thought he was capable of indifference? He cared far too much about _everything_ , especially if the topic was something that made him sensitive. When he first started playing the harp, his father had accused him of being _"like uncle Daeron"_ and laughed in his face. Even now, Rhaegar knew that was the target of his father's insults when he mentioned his _beauty_. The younger Targaryen denied these claims, but he always wondered if the king truly believed them. He also wondered if there was anyone else who agreed, present company included.

"To shed light on your earlier inquiry," Ser Gerold finally spoke, abruptly putting a halt to both his subordinates' jests and Rhaegar's thoughts on the matter, "before you all decided to jump to these outlandish conclusions, Jon came out here because I sent him."

"Why?" Harlan asked only, curiosity seeping into his voice. His laughter had completely died at this point.

"For questioning me," the Lord Commander stated dryly. "And insubordination."

"Ah, that's just like you, Gerold," Lewyn remarked good-naturedly, grabbing the flagon of ale out of Harlan's grasp and taking a swig. "This was a clever punishment."

"Oh, this isn't all," Ser Gerold informed him. "He'll be squiring for Arthur for the next few weeks, as well."

A loud and sudden laugh escaped Harlan, who turned to point at the exhausted redhead amidst his fit. This gesture prompted everyone's eyes to return to the action in the middle of the training yard. Jon's swings were noticeably slower, as he struggled to take labored breaths. There were several crimson splatches now staining his tunic and dripping to the rocky terrain at his feet.

Ser Arthur, however, remained unscathed.

Rhaegar tried not to glare at Harlan for his obvious delight at Jon's expense. It was reasonable to assume the old man had not even considered the insensitivity of his actions, since he was, for the most part, unintentionally thoughtless in any given situation. The Targaryen heir struggled not to fault any of them for their questionable forms of amusement. Whether it was Jon or the prince himself on the receiving end of the joke, humor was how they coped with the unfortunate circumstances surrounding them. Everyone had their own methods.

Prince Lewyn broke the silence by nudging Oswell beside him, an easy smile gracing his lips. "How much longer do you think the heir to Griffin's Roost can last?"

"Can't be much longer now, by the looks of it," Oswell remarked, as a grin of his own returned. "Although, you _do_ have to give him credit for how many times he's gotten back up."

"Oh, I'm giving him plenty of credit," the Dornish prince agreed with a shrug. "But, it's only a matter of time before he stays down. The boy can't hold out forever."

"What do you think will finally get him to stay down?" Oswell now lifted a hand to his chin in contemplation. "The way I see it, the only way that Arthur will be able to overcome that bullheaded stubbornness is if he knocks him out. Maybe he'll trip him, so he hits his head."

"Hmm," Lewyn mused, taking another draught of his stolen ale. His eyes narrowed as he considered this suggestion. "While that's a good _theory_ , I have the advantage of knowing Arthur personally. He wouldn't resort to a dirty trick like that. That man is as honorable as they come, rivaled only by Ser Barristan. _I_ think that Jon will have to wear himself out for this to end, because we both know he will _never_ yield."

"Well, since you're so confident, why don't we take a bet on it?" Oswell proposed, and he pushed himself down from his perched position on the wall to stand beside the Dornishman. His eyes were fixed on the pair in the yard, even as a playful smirk took hold of his expression. "Ten gold dragons, and loser has to buy a round of drinks for _everyone_ tonight."

" _Everyone_?" Lewyn's eyes lit up with delight, his dark gaze also trained on the fighting duo. "I'll take that bet. I look forward to your hospitality at the tavern, Oswell."

"Wait!" Harlan's attention suddenly shifted to the conspirators beside him, as he leaned in close. "I want in."

"Alright, Harlan," Oswell offered the older knight an approving nod. "What's _your_ bet?"

The elderly knight cleared his throat dramatically, before announcing, "Jon will be his own downfall! I say that Arthur won't even have to touch him to ensure his victory. The young lad will knock himself out!"

The Dornish prince and Oswell exchanged a dumbfounded, skeptical glance, but it soon faded into a roguish glint as they nodded in unison.

"May the best man win," Lewyn stated with an air of utter confidence, lifting his mug into a salutary cheer.

"Oh," Oswell cast the Dornishman a wink, "I intend to."

"Just watch," Harlan interjected, narrowing his eyes in determination. "This is my moment. I will _finally_ win a bet. Arthur is mygood luck charm."

The older Kingsguard's declaration barely concerned his two competitors, whose attention had now returned to the courtyard.

Rhaegar watched their exchange from his position against the stone wall, desperately trying to find the amusement in their banter. He needed to get past his anger. It was unfair to hold a grudge against their earlier comments, especially since he was well aware that none of them were serious. They also had no idea how deeply their jokes unsettled him. He remained silent about his father's abuses, the Kingsguard only knowing as much as they witnessed.

The prince ran a hand through his hair. He realized the impact of his irritation only heightened the more he thought on it. Forcing it away was not something he could successfully accomplish. He sighed, pointedly directing his gaze onto the clashing figures.

The definition of _training_ seemed lost on Jon as he fought against the older, experienced knight. If he was against a less skilled opponent, his blows would have been fatal. Rhaegar silently chastised the younger man. He was allowed to be upset, but killing was unacceptable. Ser Arthur's only crime, in Jon's eyes, was training too harshly. Of course, in his defense, he did not seem to be thinking through any of his actions. Rather, he was striking aimlessly, blinded by rage.

Rhaegar realized that in the few encounters he had with Ser Arthur, he had never been the one to witness his abilities as an observer. Measuring an opponent's skill in the midst of a fight was important, but the perspective of a bystander could be equally beneficial. _The Sword of the Morning_ moved with practiced precision. Every swing of his blade was calculated and even the slightest shuffle of his feet was made in anticipation of his opponent's next step. In fact, he seemed to plan several moves in advance.

The young prince watched in quiet fascination as the strategic mind of Arthur Dayne was visually displayed before his eyes.

Jon lost his footing momentarily on a loose stone, but he soon recovered and turned to again face the Dornish knight. His frustration was reaching its peak, any patience he possessed had disappeared long before this spar even began. He brought his sword down in a wide arc over his opponent's left side, but the man deftly evaded the blow, taking a purposeful step to the right. Jon followed this action with a series of exaggerated swings, his shouts filling the courtyard as Ser Arthur took calculated strides around him.

In the next moment, Rhaegar realized the knight had successfully circled back to that section of the terrain where the redhead had previously stumbled. He stood several paces away and, in his reckless fury, Jon charged at him, his sword raised high above his head as he ran. He quickly crossed the distance between them, but the moment he was within reach of the taller man, Ser Arthur stepped aside, leaving Jon to trip over the upturned rock and fall to the ground.

The spectators watched with bated breath, waiting for a sign of movement from the prostrate individual, but he remained immobile on the warm stones beneath him. A pang of fear struck the prince and he immediately assumed the worst until he noticed the piercing blue gaze across the yard filled with reassurance.

Rhaegar released a relieved sigh, his breath shaking with his previous anxiety and all irritation at the Kingsguards' jests long forgotten.

It was only when Harlan's voice piped up beside him that the prince finally laughed, the tension washing away, replaced by the familiar endearment he felt for the elderly knight.

" _So_ …I win?"


	5. Loosened Tongues

Back to the Start

Chapter V

"Loosened Tongues"

…

\+ HARLAN GRANDISON +

…

The clinking of goblets accompanied by the boisterous sound of laughter and shouts filled the space of the tavern. In the center of the room stood a bard, his melodic voice drifting over the inhabitants of the popular establishment. Harlan cheered for the young man, verbalizing his appreciation of a good song, followed by a string of requests. After the long walk, the uplifting atmosphere rejuvenated the old man, and he had no interest in losing that enriching feeling to poor music. The subtle changes in a room could drastically affect someone's mood, even if those variations went unnoticed.

He smiled to himself as he glanced around at his cherished companions. His new favorite sat directly beside him, an achievement he had obstinately refused to lose. The dark haired Dornishman with those striking blue eyes was still an enigma to Harlan, but his personality was quickly unravelling before him. Arthur was a determined young man, ambitious when he so desired and humble when he acquired those goals. The old man fondly admired his complete lack of arrogance, which seemed to develop all too easily when a man earned a name for himself. Arthur, however, was grounded. It was a refreshing change to see in someone so young.

Harlan doubted small changes in the environment would affect _the Sword of the Morning's_ overall mood, but he knew Arthur was sharp enough to pick up on them.

To his left, Jonothor silently sipped at his ale, his mood expectantly sullen. A terrible misfortune had befallen that particular Kingsguard's history, and it left Harlan dejected when he compared it to the laughter that once lit up those dark eyes. Jonothor was absent to the rest of the world, a passenger in his own life. Any change that was observed by the man from House Darry seemingly passed through him, but beneath the surface existed a storm of those bottled reactions. Harlan briefly wondered when the wall against that torrent would crack and flood the gloomy knight with emotions once more. He could not decide if such a future was something to wish for.

Jon Darry's melancholy could only be rivaled by the paradox that was Rhaegar Targaryen. Depression and shame plagued the silver-haired prince, the weight of his burdens reflected heavily in his deep violet eyes. There were times when Harlan looked upon the crown prince and recalled the crimson flames that tore through Summerhall. That inferno had claimed not only their king, Aegon V, but the former Lord Commander as well. Ser Duncan had been a wise leader; one Harlan was honored to followed. It was only him and Gerold in those days, but time and tragedy had claimed five of their brothers, replacing them with new members to adore and treasure.

Harlan understood that light and fortune came from death just as much as sadness, and it was a lesson he wished the prince would learn for himself. Prince Rhaegar only saw the darkness. The day of his birth was a clear example of that. He knew the Targaryen heir believed he was cursed, blaming himself for every misfortune that transpired upon another human being. The prince had not even reached his seventeenth year. One so young should not be so troubled. He knew he shared the desire with his brothers to see the day when a true and free smile would relieve all that despair.

The old man was content, though, as he watched the light waves of laughter escape the crown prince. He was still caged, but the moments spent in good spirits were a sign of hope that one day he would no longer be imprisoned by his own heart and mind. The pleasant tunes rolling off the bard's lute eased a serenity onto the prince as he smiled at Oswell's most recent jest.

Harlan's attention was claimed by the youngest White Cloak then, scampering between his place at the wooden table and a seat at the bar. He was amused by the curly-haired knight's constant antics, often joining in on them himself, but life might become monotonous for the old man if he refused to ever call him out on his seemingly endless supply of energy. Besides, he had won a great victory today. He had won his first bet in _years_ , leaving Oswell and Lewyn as the losers. It left Harlan reveling in his accidental success, even when he insisted that Barristan guard His Grace in his stead that evening. Barristan was understandably reluctant at first, but, recognizing Harlan's unique luck, he had obliged.

Harlan had been overjoyed at the fortunate turn of events, promising to return the favor to his younger sworn brother. The delight of the old knight intensified when Oswell begrudgingly purchased the first round of drinks for his companions, which were soon followed by Lewyn's contribution. Even the foolhardy Jon, who chose to sulk in the furthest corner of the tavern with his injuries and wounded pride, was granted the gift of two tankards of ale.

"Oswell!" the old knight presently shouted over the loud chatter around him, his mouth curled into his signature coy grin. "Must you be so indecisive? Just pick a place and sit down. You're making this poor old man jealous of your youthful vigor."

"You'll have to content yourself to look on in envy, then!" Oswell proclaimed. As he leaned across the table to respond to Harlan's halfhearted confession, the contents of his newly filled mug sloshed over the rim, falling onto the innocent Dayne below.

Arthur's expression barely changed even as the cold ale trickled down the side of his face. He arched a single brow in reaction to the unwanted hindrance, but quickly blinked it away and reached for a rag.

Lewyn released a booming laugh at the display, before rising from his nearby seat at the bar to pull Oswell away from the table. The abruptness of this action, however, caused more ale to fly out of the younger man's tankard, splattering the amber liquid on his restrainer's boots and narrowly missing Arthur, who deftly leaned away from the anticipated splash.

"Oswell, it's times like these that I'm ashamed to call you a drinking companion," Lewyn chastised his fellow White Cloak with a grin. "You need to learn how to hold your liquor."

" _Just_ so we're clear," Oswell lifted a finger and wagged it pointedly at the Dornishman, "I can hold my liquor just fine. This is _only_ because of that drinking contest with Gwayne. A contest _which_ , I'll have you know, I _won_!"

Lewyn arched a brow at that, "Oh, did you? I watched that entire contest—if you can even call it a _contest_ —and I didn't see a winner from that. You're both still conscious, after all."

"There are other ways to determine a winner," the younger knight shook his head at the Dornish prince. " _I_ finished my drinks _faster_." He turned his body toward the bar with a jolt, where a disinterested Gwayne was still seated. "Isn't that right?"

Gwayne shrugged in response, as he took several greedy gulps of his ale. After slamming down his empty mug, the drunk knight pushed himself out of his seat and proceeded to sling an arm around Oswell's shoulders. He punched his arm good-naturedly with a hearty laugh.

"That's right! Oswell here is the drinking victor!'

Harlan shook his head at the young men. He recalled the days when he would join in a friendly drinking competition, but he was too old for such reckless excursions now. His health came first and drinking excessively would surely send him to an early grave. He reflected on Oswell and Gwayne's physical conditions, noting with a smile that they had many more years of tomfoolery ahead of them. Drinking away their stress was a luxury the young men deserved.

Of course, Harlan was still rather upset with Gwayne for almost single-handedly causing Arthur's death. He could not fathom what grudge the arrogant individual held towards the impressive Dornish knight, but the fact alone that he held one was not surprising. Gwayne was petty, and the slightest insult would instill a desire for vengeance. He and the king were alike in that way, and unfortunately, that was not where their similarities ended. From the moment Gwayne first swore his sacred vows, he had developed an unusual camaraderie with King Aerys. They shared many opinions, as well as a mutual fondness for the other.

One area they differed, however, was in their feelings towards _the Sword of the Morning_. Where Gwayne was unreasonably bitter, His Grace was surprisingly fond. It was a strange turn of events, but Harlan could hardly complain. The king's whim had saved Arthur's life, after all. That was more than enough reason to celebrate. Gwayne would be Gwayne. Nothing would change that man. At least they all knew he would never betray one of his own. The seven sworn brothers shared many secrets amongst themselves, and not a single one had yet reached the king's ears.

Ironically, in the same moment these thoughts passed through his mind, the tavern's main door swung open to reveal the curvaceous figure of Lewyn's most well kept secret. The woman's stunning hazel eyes brightened when they found the merrymaking group of knights. Her cascading golden tresses flowed behind her as she sauntered across the entryway towards the bar, where the woman was greeted with a strong, passionate embrace as the Dornish prince kissed his paramour.

Cheers from Harlan and the young pair of drinking contestants immediately erupted.

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise at Lewyn's public contradiction to his sworn vows. His piercing gaze promptly shifted, however, glancing around the table to observe the reactions of the prince's fellow Kingsguard. Harlan's dark stare followed. Jonothor's head was lowered, a shadow now hovering over his tense expression. The young knight from the Riverlands was just beginning to loosen up before his superior's affair had ignited old and painful memories. Beside him, the _White Bull_ rolled his eyes, an unamused frown dragging on his mouth. The Lord Commander had agreed to remain silent about Lewyn's bold transgressions, but he did not approve, and he did not find any humor in such a reckless, public display.

That only left Rhaegar's reaction, and when Arthur's wandering gaze finally landed on the prince, Harlan pursed his lips. The carefree ease had vanished from his visage, leaving concern and fear in his violet eyes. He noticeably glanced around at the tavern's many occupants, pulling his hood further over his face. The faces of the seven Kingsguard were unknown to the general population of King's Landing, but the striking silver hair of House Targaryen could never go unnoticed. If anyone saw Prince Rhaegar sitting in the local bar, they could easily piece together the identities of his companions, and that would be the end of Lewyn Martell's secret love affair with Jocelyn Waters.

Harlan pitied the conflicted feelings of both Rhaegar and Jonothor. Even Gerold's difficult position as Lord Commander garnered sympathy. However, Lewyn alone was responsible for his actions and any possible repercussions, a fact that the Dornish prince knew very well. He would satisfy his desires for as long as he could, and his sworn brothers would support him. Besides, Jocelyn was such pleasant company. What man could refuse her? They all found enjoyment in her presence, even though she was strictly Lewyn's lover.

"I was wondering when I would get to see that dazzling smile again," Lewyn stated as he pulled away, his voice reflecting his enthusiasm as laughter danced across it.

"Here it is," Jocelyn returned simply, even as the smile widened on her luscious lips. With a teasing sparkle in her hazel eyes, she added, "Maybe next time, you won't make us both wait so long."

The Dornishman traced his thumb along her bottom lip, a seductive grin playing on his own. "The wait is part of the fun, Jocelyn. It's so much more thrilling when you miss me."

Gwayne whistled at the pair, pounding his fist against the bar's wooden surface in a rhythmic pattern. The strain, or confusion from Arthur, remained over the others, so Harlan shrugged and decided the atmosphere required an adjustment.

"This fool," he raised his voice to cut off any further flirtations, as he indicated Lewyn with a dismissive wave of his hand, "only ever talks nonsense." He then proceeded to loudly scoot his chair closer to the couple and direct a coy wink towards Jocelyn, "The true thrill is seeing you walk through that door, my dear."

The bodacious blonde cast the old man a playful smile in turn. "Isn't that sweet?" she mused, before again resting her gaze on her lover. "I think Ser Harlan has the right idea."

"That's because any man of intelligence would never keep _you_ waiting," Oswell took the opportunity to chime in, as he slung an arm around Jocelyn's shoulders, even in Lewyn's continued hold on her. "Playing games? Taking you for granted? What do you even see in this man?"

Gwayne slammed his hand against the bar, as he announced, "I wanna know, too!"

"Hmm…," Jocelyn eyed the Dornish prince deliberately, "he makes a fair point."

Prince Lewyn arched a brow at his paramour, meeting her challenging stare with a confident smirk. "Yes, the point that you clearly aren't taken by me for my mind." Reaching his arm further around her, he shoved Oswell away and pulled her safely from the third spill of his ale. A roguish grin appeared, then, as he turned back to her, "Our affair started out so much more physical than that, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, I suppose I would have to," the blonde beauty told her knight. She lifted a slender hand to trail along his temple, tracing her fingertip through the silver lines that were beginning to take root in his dark hair. "Unlike the rest of you, you leave much to be desired up here, my love."

"You more than make up for what I lack, my lady," Lewyn returned with a wink.

Harlan's smile widened, then, as his mischievous eyes slid over to rest on the other Dornishman. Playing along with Oswell was a fun he had experienced immeasurable times over the years, but the banter he had with Arthur was new and exciting. Now that he was over the initial shock, he might be ready to join in on the fun.

"Well, Jocelyn, if intelligence _and_ dashing good looks are what you're after…," the old knight trailed off, leaving the rest of his statement to be implied when he finally rose from his chair and quickly moved to pull the unsuspecting Dayne to his feet. He lifted the man with relative ease, as he shot another suggestive wink at the lady before him.

Jocelyn's eyes lit up with sudden intrigue, and she pushed herself out of her lover's embrace to move toward this newfound attraction.

"And who might _this_ be?" the woman asked, the question directed at Harlan, but her gaze was still locked on the Dornishman.

" _This_ ," Harlan began, pushing the man closer to the expectant Jocelyn, "is Arthur Dayne."

"Ohh," Jocelyn measured him pointedly with her eyes. "So, _this_ is the famous Arthur Dayne. Well, this is certainly more than I'd expected. Lewyn…I think you left out a few details, when you told me about him."

Lewyn took the opportunity to step forward and slide his arm around to the small of her back. "That's because there are no words that can appropriately capture the beauty of this man. You _have_ to see it for yourself."

"And I am very glad that I am," Jocelyn returned, as she leaned into her knight's strong chest and continued to appraise the Dayne.

"I beg to differ!" Harlan insisted, gesturing along the length of Arthur's figure with a flourish. "There _are_ words. His eyes are the soft azure blue of the Summer Sea, set beneath two perfectly defined arches. The bones of his cheeks rest high on the plains of his smoothed profile, with the strength of a finely chiseled jawline that was carved by the gods. He has a nose that has never seen a single imperfection, and a mouth that can strike at the heart of any living being, man or woman, when it upturns just the slightest at the corner. Shall I continue?"

Harlan smiled proudly at his handiwork, as he looked around the vicinity for everyone's reactions. Lewyn and Oswell exchanged a humored glance while utter confusion reigned prominent in Gwayne's inebriated stupor. Jonothor's expression remained unchanged, however, as he was too lost in his mind to notice the changes in the external environment. Gerold's disinterest had shifted to mild amusement, although another eye roll threatened. A smile had once again found its way onto Rhaegar's mouth.

Arthur's Summer Sea eyes rested on the older knight, as a single brow was lifted in a perfect arch and his lips were drawn into that distinctive upturn. Harlan laughed to himself. He had successfully managed to erase the earlier tension, even though it was at his own expense.

"My, my…," Jocelyn's voice had a gentle melodic undertone, as her hazel eyes lit up with mirth. "You've described him perfectly, Ser Harlan. It seems there _are_ words, after all."

"I feel entirely shamed," Lewyn deadpanned.

Ignoring the sarcasm from the Dornish prince, Harlan grinned widely at Jocelyn and lowered his head into a bow. After he straightened, the coy tone returned as he said, "Now, isn't Arthur Dayne _significantly_ more desirable than your current unintelligent lover?"

"It's a hard thing to deny," the blonde admitted, as she allowed a brief glance at Lewyn, before her eyes again returned to _the Sword of the Morning_. "I confess, this is a _very_ tempting alternative."

"Why must there be a choice between us?" Lewyn posed, his voice dropping to a familiar suggestive rasp. "If I could have it my way, the _three_ of us could have quite the adventure together. And while I'm certain _you_ wouldn't be opposed, my love," he lowered his head to place a quick peck on Jocelyn's cheek, before his gaze fell pointedly onto Arthur, "my friend here deserves a more meaningful first."

Harlan gasped, "First?!"

He brought his wide-eyed stare to rest on the Dayne beside him, the man looking suddenly uncomfortable. How could someone so attractive have never lain with a woman? Or even a man, for that matter? Was he not _Dornish_? The Dornish were renowned for their liberated mentality, accepting even bastards as normal, upstanding citizens. He expected this from Barristan, the man was rigid in his every ideal, but with Arthur it was surprising, to say the least. He had returned Harlan's jests about Jon and Rhaegar only last night, which gave off the impression of a certain level of comfort with the subject. Was Arthur, perhaps, more open to joking about others than himself? Or, was it the absurdity of the jokes that made it easier on the man?

It was difficult to say, but the enigma that was Arthur Dayne was only becoming more mysterious by the moment.

"Wait!" Oswell threw up his hands, his brow drawn in confusion. "Lewyn, you can't…pfft," he attempted to wave this accusation away with his hand, "you can't mean _that_."

"Oh, I do," the Dornish prince returned easily. "I told you, Arthur is as honorable as they come."

"Well, sure, but I didn't think you meant _that_ ," the younger knight remarked incredulously. He fixed his gaze on the man in question, one eye narrowing in a squint as he beheld him. "You've honestly never been with _anyone_?"

"No," Arthur responded simply, although a noticeable strain had taken hold of his voice. "I haven't."

A loud scoff carried across from the far end of the table, as Gwayne directed a displeased glare at the Dornish knight. "So, what, does that make you better than the rest of us? Being the best fighter isn't enough, huh? And anyway, what's so dishonorable about it? If the woman isn't a maiden and is consenting, then I don't see the problem."

Arthur's piercing gaze hardened as it rested on Gwayne. It was a look which strangely reminded Harlan of Gerold. He had been on the receiving end of that look far too many times, and none of them were pleasant memories.

"I'm not sure there's even a point in bothering to explain it to you," Arthur stated. There was little patience in his voice. "Any explanation I give is likely to fall on deaf ears, so I won't waste my breath."

"Oh, 'cause you think we're so low that any words spoken to us would just be a waste?" Gwayne accused, knocking over a nearby stool in his sudden fury.

The man advanced with a few unbalanced steps toward the object of his rage, quickly crossing the distance and grabbing the front of Arthur's coat. Oswell was the first to react, placing a firm arm against his sworn brother's chest and pulling him back out of his hold on the Dornish knight.

"Get off me!" the enraged young man insisted, fighting against Oswell's restraint.

Several questioning eyes were now focused on their table, disturbed by the confrontation. Harlan noticed a subtle shifting motion from his peripherals, and he turned to see that Rhaegar had tilted his head to fixate entirely on the miniscule indentions marking the surface of the table. He was reasonably attempting to hide his face from anyone who could potentially recognize him, just as he had been doing since they exited the Red Keep, but there was also a stiffness in his posture that betrayed his discomfort. It was a well-known fact among the Kingsguard that their prince despised conflict, but his reactions to such circumstances were hardly consistent. There were times when he would boldly step in to resolve the dispute, and there were also times when he shrunk back and hid from the tense environment. This moment was clearly the latter.

"That's enough," Gerold finally spoke. His tone was harsh and commanding, and his unwavering stare was trained on his drunken subordinate.

"It's fine," Oswell insisted, in a voice significantly more carefree than that of the Lord Commander. He gave Gwayne a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and donned a smile. "Here, have another drink," he added, as he turned his hot-headed friend toward the bar.

"One might say he's had too _much_ to drink," Lewyn whispered aside to Jocelyn, who met his jape with a light laugh.

"Ohh, to be young," Harlan mused to himself, smiling with humor as he watched Oswell tend to his inebriated friend.

His current train of thought, of the brash and reckless youth, turned his ponderings to the young Lord Connington, who was yet to leave his dark nook. He wondered if his torrential emotions had calmed at all or if they had instead festered. Perhaps leaving the lad alone to brood in his shame was unkind, but he had brought it on himself.

Curiosity had found a hold on the old man, though, as he considered ways to lift Jon's spirits, but the only possibility rested with the prince, who had finally lifted his violet gaze, although the rigidity remained. Apparently, Rhaegar's mind had wandered in a similar direction, as he directed his attention to the still seething man in the corner. Harlan smiled knowingly, as his eyes darted briefly between Rhaegar and his lovesick friend. He knew the Targaryen was angry with Jon for his earlier actions, but he always tried to bury such feelings. It was a poor attempt, though, considering he had barely spared the redhead a glance since they left the training yard earlier that day.

Harlan watched as Rhaegar rolled his eyes and released an irritable exhale, before abruptly pushing himself to his feet. He strode across the room, a discernible tension in his shoulders, and stopped when he was standing in front of his flaming haired companion in the far corner. The old knight's eyes remained on the pair, observing the movements of their mouths as they spoke, but he was too far away to hear. His curiosity was simply too overwhelming, so he decided there was no harm in listening.

Glancing back at his fellow Kingsguard, he noticed most had either reacted indifferently to Rhaegar's sudden location change or had not even noticed. Oswell was the one who was right by his side during times like these, but he was preoccupied with Gwayne. Harlan's dark gaze was met, however, by those blue Summer Sea eyes. Arthur had silently observed the prince just as the older knight had, and now he was waiting to see what mischievous action the old man had in store. Well, he would not disappoint.

After loudly announcing his need to relieve himself outside, Harlan briskly stepped away from their table and walked the horizontal length of the room. Most of the tavern's tables rested in the center, receiving direct warmth from the roaring hearth. The old knight laughed to himself, as he crouched low and snuck between the rows of wooden chairs, the other occupants too deep in their cups to notice or care. Once he reached the fireplace, he took measured steps to cross in front of it until he reached the edge. Once there, he poked his head around the corner, spying Jon still seated with a mug in his hand and Rhaegar leaning against the wall.

Harlan quickly pulled his head back, knowing his questionable plans to eavesdrop would be ruined if either one saw him. With an excited smile, he lowered himself to the bench beneath him and listened.

"I don't have a right to be angry?" Jon's voice was laced with a weak challenge, as it shook with emotion.

"No, you don't," Rhaegar replied calmly, his tone unusually firm. "Ser Arthur fought after _you_ demanded it, and his victory was more than fair. This isn't the first time you lost a fight, Jon, and it probably won't be the last."

"You think I'm angry because I _lost_?" Jon sounded hurt. "You think I'm angry because one of the best fighters in Westeros beat me? Maybe…maybe it does have _something_ to do with the fact that I couldn't even land a single hit on him, but…I expected to lose. I know how I must have looked, but I'm not an idiot."

"Then what is it?" Rhaegar questioned shortly. He seemed to have lost all patience for his longtime friend.

A pause fell between them, and when Jon spoke again, emotion overwhelmed his tone, to a point that he could hardly get the words out without choking over them. "When did you stop confiding in me?"

There was another silence, then, and Harlan could only assume it was due to Rhaegar's surprise at Jon's vulnerable confession. The young man often disguised his hurt with that flaring temper, especially when the Targaryen prince was the one to inflict the injury, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue.

When the silence was broken, Rhaegar's voice revealed his confusion, as well as the underlying fear that he had unintentionally pushed away his closest friend. "What are you talking about?"

"It didn't…it didn't used to be like this…," Jon stumbled over sobs. "Rhaegar…"

"Jon," the prince started, but cut himself off when the impatience flared again. He took a moment to regain his composure, and the familiar calm flowed from him in gentle waves, even as guilt intertwined his voice. "Jon…I haven't stopped confiding in you. I…there have always been things that I didn't tell you because they have nothing to do with you. My decision to train under Ser Arthur was entirely my own. I didn't confide in _anyone_ about that, not even Ser Barristan, who I knew it would upset. It doesn't…," Rhaegar sighed, "it doesn't mean I care any less about you, but I know how difficult it is to be my friend. I don't want to burden anyone."

"Then, don't," Jon returned, his voice pleading. "If you know it's upsetting everyone, why are you doing it? Why are you…why do you have to train under _him_?" his tone rose with a sudden jealousy at the last word.

Harlan chuckled quietly to himself. He would leave out the details of Rhaegar's poor self-image when he shared this conversation with the others, but he was definitely going to include Jon's implied admission of jealousy. But, honestly, who could blame him? In the short time since Arthur's arrival in King's Landing, there had been a shift in the dynamic of both the Kingsguard and in Rhaegar's resolve. The silver-haired prince was becoming a man who could make difficult decisions, even at the expense of others. It was a strength that Harlan had admired during the reign of Aegon the Unlikely. And Arthur had single-handedly instilled the bravery necessary for Rhaegar to bring forth those subdued qualities.

"I'm training under him because I spent far too long holding myself back," as the Targaryen spoke, his determination returned. "I can't spend my entire life trying to make everyone happy. That's just…that's impossible. And happiness won't even matter if I lose the people I'm trying to protect. Survival... _must_ come first, before _everything_. I _have_ to become a warrior, and Arthur Dayne is the only one who can push me into making that dream a reality. That has to be my priority, for now."

"He's the _only_ one?" Jon questioned, his tone muddled in his confusion, and still heavy with emotion. "I don't…understand."

"I'm not asking you to understand," Rhaegar returned easily. "I'm just asking that you respect my decision."

The young Connington fell silent once more. Whether it was a rare moment of careful contemplation or the sluggishness of a mind overpowered by too much drink that gave him pause, it was difficult to say. Finally, he spoke, and when he did, he sounded dismal with defeat.

"Do I have a choice?"

"…You always have a choice," Rhaegar's voice lowered as a solemnness took hold, most likely caused by memories of his oppressive father as well as his position. The prince was not wrong to believe many decisions were out of his hands, but that is exactly why he emphasized freedom of choice whenever possible. He was never the type to force anyone to do anything.

"…No," Jon disagreed. "I don't. You've already made up your mind. There's…nothing I can do to change it, once you've done that."

"You still have the choice to respect it or not," Rhaegar insisted. "If you continue to argue with me, that's fine. It _won't_ change my mind, but I'll listen to your concerns. I was…wrong to say you didn't have a right to be angry. You're free to feel however you want about this situation. However…," in the next moment, the Targaryen's gentle tone changed to one of stern authority, "how you chose to act today was unacceptable. If you managed to strike Ser Arthur, it would have been fatal. You understand you could have killed him, right? If this were a battle, it would be different, but you were solely fighting out of anger. There's a line, Jon, and I pray that you never cross it again."

Harlan's eyes widened. During the spar that afternoon, it had never occurred to him that Jon could have killed Arthur. Of course, it was silly to suggest the young Lord Connington was skilled enough to land a hit on _the Sword of the Morning_ , but Rhaegar was right. It did not matter who the opponent was. Jon had been jealous, and he allowed his anger to get the best of him. If he was being honest, he had not expected the conversation to take this turn. Rhaegar had pulled out his commanding voice, which he only used on rare occasions. It was warranted, though, and now the prince's annoyance with his friend was more understandable.

The old knight's dark gaze wandered across the room to the table he had abandoned, and it was then that he was once again met with the piercing blue eyes of Arthur Dayne. So, he _had_ been watching him. Harlan hoped he had fulfilled his new favorite's expectations, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Arthur would disapprove of his current actions. He seemed to value privacy.

Jon sounded very small when he responded to the object of his deepest desire. "I wasn't…trying to kill him."

"I know," Rhaegar quickly assured him, "but you let your anger lead your actions. Even if it isn't your intention, your lack of self-control can hurt other people. You need to be more aware."

"You're right," Jon admitted. "I wasn't thinking…"

"No, you weren't, but…it was an accident," he paused a moment, and it sounded as though the prince was attempting a smile. "I'll…I'll help where I can, alright?"

When Jon said nothing, Harlan was left to assume he had given some nonverbal response. The silence was soon broken by a noisy gulp, which must have been the redhead taking a generous swig of ale. Harlan determined that now was a good time to leave. Rhaegar would probably spend the next few moments convincing Jon to join everyone at the table, which could lead to them catching the old man in his snooping. It was best to evacuate before such things occurred. Smiling once more, Harlan rose from his seat on the bench and made his way down the long route that led to their table. He winked at Arthur when he arrived, and swiftly reclaimed his spot beside him.

" _So_ …what did I miss?" Harlan inquired around the table, feigning innocence, but genuinely interested.

"Oh good, you're finally done pissing," Oswell remarked.

He was again standing beside Arthur's chair, a newly filled flagon in his hand, the now distracted Gwayne all but abandoned at the bar with a well-endowed woman in his lap. Jocelyn had also taken to her Dornish prince's lap, and the two were quite comfortably engaged in whatever conversation Harlan had walked into.

"Maybe you can help me out here," Oswell was presently telling his elderly friend. "Don't you think every man should have the chance to know what it's like to be with a woman, at least _once_ in his life?"

Oh, right. Harlan had all but forgotten their earlier topic of interest during his sudden adventure. His previous confusion returned with the same intensity, as he swiveled in his chair to face Arthur and Oswell.

Directing a pointed look their way, he emphatically responded, " _Absolutely_. It is an experience unlike any other. A man may find himself full of regret without it."

"I don't see how any regret can be found in holding to your honor, and the honor of a woman," Arthur stated simply. His eyes were trained on the deep amber liquid in his mug.

"How about bedding a woman after marrying her?" Lewyn's attention had been pulled away from Jocelyn by the current flow of conversation. He arched an eyebrow as he stared curiously at Arthur. "Have you ever considered it?"

Arthur lifted his stare then, and he brought it to rest pointedly on his fellow Dornishman, a knowing look behind his piercing gaze. "It exists as a possibility, and I have considered it, but I decided against it some time ago, now. You see," an easy smirk found its way to the corner of his mouth, as he said, "it happens to contradict my chosen path."

"But you could have chosen another path," the Dornish Prince remarked, before a smile dripping with implication formed. "You still can. Did you know," he turned his head toward his paramour, then, but his eyes remained on the Dayne, "Arthur here was almost related to me? My sister is determined to secure a good match for her two youngest, and she looked favorably at House Dayne for some time. It even happens that Arthur is quite fond of my niece, Elia."

Harlan's eyes brightened as he took in this new information. Elia Martell was renowned as a gentle beauty in the Seven Kingdoms. Due to her frail health, she was not permitted to travel often, but the reigning Princess of Dorne had worked around that limitation, journeying across Westeros to find a suitable husband for her daughter and a wife for her youngest son. Oberyn Martell, it was rumored, had scared away every suitor because he did not find them worthy of his sister's hand. The old knight had heard of Princess Nymella's failed venture to Starfall several years prior, but he had failed to acquire further details.

Until now.

Leaning closer to the Dayne beside him, Harlan wiggled his eyebrows with a coy smile stretched across his face. " _Really_? I've heard such positive talk about Elia, but I'm ashamed to admit I've never met her myself. Arthur, you _must_ tell me about her."

Arthur awarded the old knight a subtle shrug of his shoulders, as he told him, "I don't have anything to say that would contradict what you've already heard of her. Elia is quite lovely, and it's difficult _not_ to be fond of her. She's always had a very kind disposition, and she is not only beautiful, but I'm also inclined to believe she's the single most intelligent woman I've ever had the pleasure of knowing."

"Then, what's stopping you?!" Oswell looked utterly appalled. His eyes were wide as he stared at the man beside him. "If I had a marriage prospect like _that_ , I would've _never_ taken this oath!"

"She sounds perfect," Jocelyn added, a kind smile on her flawless face. She had leaned in closer to listen to Arthur's description of his intelligent, faraway beauty. Glancing aside to Lewyn, then, she mused, "That would make Arthur your nephew, wouldn't it?"

"I like the sound of that," her lover nodded, his grin widening. "He's practically family already. It would be such an easy transition. I know for a fact Oberyn actually likes him."

" _Does_ he?" Harlan raised his eyebrows pointedly, once again recalling the youngest Martell's dissuasive reputation. He nudged his favorite encouragingly in the side, "You've already won half the battle."

"While I can't argue with that logic, it isn't my battle to win," Arthur responded, his tone one of nonchalance.

"Why not?" the older knight insisted.

"Yes, _why_?" Oswell pressed emphatically.

The Dayne appeared entirely unmoved by their questioning. "It's as I said. That isn't the path I chose. I believe there are few with the constitution to properly devote their lives to the realm, and even fewer willing to make the sacrifices required of a member of the Kingsguard—as you have all made abundantly clear, even if I _did_ have any doubt of that—but I determined some time ago that I _do_ possess the constitution for it. I can't very well let that go to waste."

"That's well said," Gerold stated, from the far end of the table, and everyone's eyes turned to the Lord Commander when he finally spoke. Though he wore his typical stoic expression, there was admiration in his gaze. "It would be a shame, if you did. We can use a man like you."

Harlan hesitated in response to the sudden tone shift, but he decided to follow it for this single moment.

After placing an arm around Arthur's shoulders, he dropped his smile and stared seriously at the man beside him. "Yes, we can, but you have the rare advantage of seeing what it's like to serve in the Kingsguard _before_ swearing your oath. We never know what the king will demand of us, but our only choice is to obey. Do you possess the constitution to betray your convictions? You've made it clear how highly you value honor."

Arthur's soft azure gaze met Harlan's, a silent contemplation barely discernible in the stillness. Barristan was also an honorable man, but he was forced to turn a blind eye when the king's whims became violent. Despite the Dayne's enjoyable presence and his admirable abilities, perhaps he would be happier if he could be spared the difficult position they all shared.

"You have time," a low, dark voice drifted over them, and Harlan turned to his left to see that Jonothor was staring distantly into the empty remnants of his cup. "Use what you've been given, and carefully consider what it means before you lock yourself in a decision. Or a life you can't escape."

* * *

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

This had certainly not transpired into the evening he had anticipated. But then, he had been finding it difficult to properly anticipate much, since he had first arrived in King's Landing. The place was unfamiliar, the people were unfamiliar, and he had yet to adjust accordingly. It would take time before he could more accurately predict them, the only consistency presenting itself in the form of Lewyn Martell, but even he had managed to surprise him more than once before the night had ended. Flaunting that woman in front of the Lord Commander, for instance. It was not that Arthur was at all surprised by his promiscuity, but he had, at the very least, expected some measure of decorum in front of his superior.

Prince Lewyn had left with his Jocelyn Waters, and both Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne had taken their leave, as well, each with a different woman on his arm. So much for the honorable vows of the Kingsguard.

Overall, this had been a less than pleasant night.

When his fellow knights had finally stopped suggesting he bed the next woman whose eye he caught, they had begun advising him against joining the Order altogether. And while he was fully aware of the reservations they must have, and the reservations they must want him to adopt, not only concerning the restrictions of their vows but also the volatile whims of the king, he was already resolved in his decision. He would take their warnings under careful consideration, he would use this time to properly determine what sort of life he might be devoting himself to, and entertain all possibilities that he could foresee, but even then, he knew his mind was made up.

Ser Harlan had given a yawn, confessed himself ready to retire, and when he insisted that someone ought to walk him back to the tower, Ser Gerold had suggested that he instead pull his own weight for a change and help Ser Jonothor, who had been drowning in alcohol from the moment they had arrived at the tavern. The old knight had grumbled, but, ultimately, he had conceded to the _White Bull's_ orders and assisted his fellow White Cloak back to their residence.

They had found Jon Connington in a similar state. Worse, actually. He had passed out on the table by the time the others were making their departure, and Ser Gerold had therefore taken it upon himself to order a flagon of water from the barkeep and give his squire a quick awakening. The young lord had shot up with a jolt, but he was still far too inebriated to take two steps without stumbling over his own feet. The Lord Commander had then given Arthur strict instructions to see that Prince Rhaegar made it to his chambers, before assuming the task of seeing the young Connington to bed himself. Ser Gerold was set to relieve Ser Barristan of his guard duty within a few hours, and he was determined to get at least _some_ sleep before that time.

The younger knight voiced no objections, although he _did_ reason that he had no idea where the prince's chambers actually were. Fortunately, the Targaryen was not so drunk that he could not offer guidance, and while he did stumble on several occasions as they made the long walk back to the Red Keep, the cold night air served to sober him. At least, to some degree. His strides grew straighter, and his words grew clearer. And those words, as it happened, had begun to take the form of a song.

" _Land of freedom, land of heroes,_

 _Land that gave us hope and memories,_

 _Hear our singing, hear our longing,_

 _We will go home across the mountains._

…

 _We will go home, we will go home,_

 _We will go home across the mountains,_

 _We will go home, we will go home,_

 _We will go home across the mountains."_

It was a sad, melancholy tune, and even in his present state, the prince sang it with a precision that Arthur had rarely encountered. His deep voice matched the somber tone of it well, and from the expression on the younger man's face and the weight with which he carried each word, it was plain to see that the melody resonated with him. Arthur narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to place the song. He listened silently to the next verse.

" _Land of sun and land of moonlight,_

 _Land that gave us joy and sorrow,_

 _Land that gave us love and laughter,_

 _We will go home across the mountains._

…

 _We will go home, we will go home,_

 _We will go home across the mountains,_

 _We will go home, we will go home,_

 _We will go home across the mountains."_

All at once, he recognized it. He had never paid _too_ much attention, to songs or poems, they generally held little interest for him, but he was nevertheless able to place where he had heard this song before. It had been a drastically different voice, emitting those words at a considerably higher tone, but it had sounded no less stunning than Prince Rhaegar did now. It had been Elia Martell, who had quite a talent for music herself, and afterwards, she had even offered him some insight into the rumors surrounding this particular piece. It was sometimes called "Song of Exile", and it was said to be about the Targaryen's longing for their ancient home of Valyria—to return and rebuild their homeland.

Arthur briefly wondered where the young prince's mind was at, as he sang the last few lines of his sad melody:

" _When the land is there before us,_

 _We have gone home across the mountains,_

 _We will go home, we will go home,_

 _We will go home across the mountains."_

The Targaryen's dark violet eyes wandered to the night sky, and the moon's bright reflection. A silence fell between them, the prince seemingly lost in thought. Several minutes passed, the only sound their footfalls on the cobbled walkway, before Prince Rhaegar's intense stare landed on Arthur.

"Do you miss your home, Ser Arthur?"

The knight awarded his prince a single arched brow, although it was not difficult to see the thought pattern that had led him to his question. His own mind was briefly flooded by thoughts of crashing waves, of high, white towers and the sea salt air, of amethyst eyes and warm smiles.

"I do," he responded simply.

"Why?" Prince Rhaegar inquired further. "Do you miss the building itself? Or perhaps the familiar surroundings of the salt breeze and your own bed to sleep in? Is it the weather itself that you miss, when you compare it to the humidity of King's Landing? Or is it…the people…your family? What…," his voice lowered, as he furrowed his brow, "what makes it home?"

Arthur listened silently to his scattered line of questioning, but when he reached his final inquiry, the Dornishman lifted his gaze to the dark sky overhead as he considered it. It was not an easy thing to answer, he was not even certain there _was_ a proper answer, but, after a brief pause, he gave the young man a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Perhaps it's all of those things," he said, again settling his stare on the man beside him.

"Perhaps it is," the crown prince conceded with a slow nod, before returning his gaze to the road ahead as a sigh escaped him. "An appreciation for that simplicity is what truly makes a home. Most of my ancestors couldn't seem to accept that. Rather than be content with their familiar castles and the irreplaceable love of family, they demanded more. They tore thousands of innocent families away from their homes and caused unimaginable suffering…all in pursuit of their own greed. A longing for that distorted idea of a home. The Targaryens lament at the loss of Valyria, but do they realize we were at the bottom of that social hierarchy? Balerion the Black Dread would have never instilled fear in a land overflowing with dragons of equal or even greater size. That humility to see how vulnerable and small we truly are is missing from the glorified Targaryen traits. Instead, we're all cursed with madness and discontent."

The more the prince rambled, the more vehement his tone, and the further away that distant look in his eyes grew. It now seemed as though he was talking to himself, rather than to Arthur, reflecting on the thoughts in his head aloud.

"And you, My Prince?" the Dayne questioned. "What do you long for? The same greed, or simplicity?"

Prince Rhaegar blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and he turned to look upon Arthur once more. He regarded him silently before answering in a solemn tone, "I long to be content with simplicity, but there are far too many things that I long for. My mind is either trapped in the past, reflecting on what was, or fearing for the future, considering what could be. I am greedy and discontent, unable to appreciate the blessings that lay before me."

In the short time Arthur had known him, he had seen nothing to reflect a man filled with the avarice of which the dragon prince was now reproaching himself. Ser Barristan had informed him of the prince's abhorrence of bloodshed, when a love of that very same carnage was a trait that had marked the Targaryen nobility for centuries. Each member of the Kingsguard had made it clear how starkly the peaceful son contrasted his violent father, and in the single interaction the Dornish knight had witnessed between King Aerys and his heir, he had seen exactly that. Arthur himself had observed a calmness in him, and humility, when Prince Rhaegar had admitted to his own responsibility in hindering his training. He had long ago requested to be treated as everyone else, and that was not the longing of a proud man.

This, more than anything, seemed to be what he longed for. He longed for contentment, but perhaps he had concluded it was out of reach. And with that realization, he accepted his position. He had very little ambition, only taking up the sword and adorning his princely guise because he saw it as his responsibility. He was not seeking glory, he was not seeking to instill fear in his subjects, with _fire and blood_. He did his duty.

He seemed a man lost in his own head, and as he spoke now, there was a bitterness that lined his tone as he condemned himself. Even as he reflected on the Targaryen legacy, there had been a harshness to his voice, and a disgruntlement in his words, which further betrayed his sense of loathing. As Arthur watched him in the silence that lingered between them, he could not help but wonder if enduring an upbringing from a man who took delight in his own son's humiliation and suffering had left the prince with a deeply rooted self-hatred.

His eyes never wavering from their careful inspection of the man beside him, Arthur mused quietly, "And yet, you long to be content."

Prince Rhaegar's gaze drifted to the empty alleys around them and the dark houses lining the street. A flicker of fear flashed in his eyes, then, but he shook his head fervently.

"What I want doesn't matter," the bitterness had disappeared from his voice and was replaced instead with resolute acceptance. "I may only be the prince, but every living person in the Seven Kingdoms is mine to protect. My happiness, my contentment, will never come before the security of my people. Perhaps one day…when the threats against them have been defeated and we can all live together in peace…perhaps then I'll finally be content."

He had been correct in his deduction.

"Refusing to allow yourself contentment, for the sake of others, isn't the same as being lost in discontentment, as your ancestors were," Arthur informed him, a firmness in his voice. "Learning from the past, anxiety for the future, putting your people before yourself—those are qualities any good leader should adopt." He fixed the prince with a pointed stare as he stated, "That isn't greed, Rhaegar."

The Targaryen listened, an air of quiet contemplation falling over him as he took in the Dornishman's words, but when the knight addressed him familiarly, omitting the title from his name, his dark eyes widened in surprise. He stared at him a moment, before a slight smile lightened his expression.

"Ser Arthur, when did you become so informal?"

"When I determined that the lack of formality might help drive my point home," Arthur explained, with a returning smirk.

"So, it was manipulative, then?" the prince's voice had adopted a humorous edge.

"I wouldn't say so," the Dayne disagreed. "It was purely a matter of emphasis."

"Well, regardless of your reason, I'm not opposed to the familiarity," the younger man informed him. The lightness remained, as his tone filled with sincerity. "It's nice to simply be Rhaegar every once in a while."

Arthur's piercing gaze observed him in silence a moment, before he offered a subtle inclination of his head. "That would make sense," he remarked. "It's a humble thing to want."

Another quiet reverie stretched out between them, as the crimson towers of the Red Keep loomed overhead. The prince had averted his attention, his stare fixed ahead of them, and the smile had disappeared from his darkening countenance.

"I'm not humble," Rhaegar finally muttered.

The Dornish knight had anticipated protestation from his companion. It would not be the first inaccurate charge the prince had lain against himself, after all, and to claim humility somehow contradicted that selfsame humble characteristic. It did not much stand to reason _for_ him to agree.

Undeterred, Arthur merely gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I disagree."

They continued the remainder of their journey in silence. The prince's stare determinedly avoided that of the knight beside him, and a distance again took hold of him, even as he led the way down a path which must be ingrained in his memory, by now. No more songs escaped his lips, no more humor lit up his dark mood. The only sound between them was the soft roar from the torches they passed and the echo of their footfalls. When they took a turn down an unfamiliar corridor within the castle walls, an unevenness overcame the Targaryen's steps, but it appeared to be due more to lethargy than his alcohol induced state.

As he scrutinized the prince's stride, Arthur took it upon himself to break the longstanding silence. "Did you rest, after our training this morning?"

"For a few hours, yes," Rhaegar responded simply. His gaze was still directed pointedly ahead of him.

"You should have slept longer," Arthur noted. "Be sure that you make up for that, tonight. Proper rest can quicken the recovery of any injuries you've sustained."

Although the prince gave a nod of his head, the distance had returned to his stare, and he lifted a hand to his brow. Arthur watched as he traced the scar his father had left behind the night before, when the Targaryen heir had voiced his defiance of the king's prospective plans to wed him to his sister. There was a subtle trembling of his jawline, as Rhaegar drew unsteady breaths, and in the dim lighting, Arthur caught the faint glaze over his deep violet eyes. They glistened in the torchlight.

The knight dropped his gaze, to allow the prince some degree of privacy in his emotional state. He did not return his eyes to his companion until the younger man halted in his steps, his hand now resting on the handle of a door, which Arthur was only left to conclude must lead to the crown prince's chambers. When he pushed the door open, however, they were both taken by surprise when a woman's voice from within called out to the young prince.

"Rhaegar!"

Arthur observed the figure who had been waiting in Rhaegar's room. She had long, platinum blonde hair, which fell in graceful wisps around her, and she wore a dark dress with intricate gold embroidery. It was her eyes, however, which gave him pause.

He had seen the distinct Targaryen violet in both the eyes of the king and the prince. Where King Aerys's had been a bright, burning violet, with a reddish hue to them, Prince Rhaegar's were calmer, darker, closer to indigo in color. This woman, however, had eyes of such a vibrant, pure amethyst, it was the likeness of which he had only beheld in one other set of eyes. The image of his own sister, Ashara, with her laughing purple eyes, was instantly pulled to the forefront of his mind.

The lady who could be none other than a Targaryen herself had crossed the room and pulled the prince into a firm, comforting embrace. It was then that Arthur noticed Rhaegar's drastic change in demeanor. All strain had vanished, and he relaxed into her embrace, holding her closely, even as his hands trembled around her. There had been a gentleness in his eyes, which had still been fighting back tears, before he pressed them shut tightly.

The Dornish knight was left with only one conclusion: she was his mother. Queen Rhaella.

All suspicions were confirmed when the prince addressed her, "Mother." His voice was quiet, weak, as though he was struggling to force the words. "Why are you here so late?"

"I was looking for you," the queen told her son. "When I couldn't find you, I decided to wait. You had to return here at _some_ point. But," here, she lifted a slender hand and pulled his hood down, to let his long, silver hair fall down his shoulders, "you've been drinking, haven't you?" Her brow was creased with worry. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine," he assured her weakly, taking her hand into his own as he forced a thin smile. "I was only drinking with the Kingsguard. They were celebrating."

Queen Rhaella gave his hand a small squeeze, as her worry shifted briefly to confusion. "What were they celebrating?"

"A bet that Ser Harlan won," the prince responded only, before his head turned slightly to acknowledge the other, silent occupant of the room. Rather than meet Arthur's gaze, however, he instead looked back at his mother and gestured behind him. "They also wanted to officially welcome Ser Arthur."

"Ser Arthur?" the queen questioned, and she followed his gesture until her amethyst stare fell on the man who still lingered in the doorway. " _The Sword of the Morning_?"

Arthur offered the woman a low bow of his head, and he responded simply, "My Queen."

"I have…heard a few things of you, ser, since you arrived here," Queen Rhaella stated, her head lifting a fraction, and the subtle tightening of her hold on her son's hand was not lost on the knight.

Here, it appeared, was the parental concern that King Aerys had been lacking.

"Mother, it's alright," Rhaegar attempted to calm her, caressing her hand reassuringly. He finally turned to look upon Arthur, then, and a hint of his former strength returned. "I requested that he train me, and Ser Arthur obliged."

"Train you?" the mother's attention had now returned entirely to her son.

Her purple stare trailed over his appearance, no doubt taking note of the discoloration from the bruises that marred his otherwise flawless complexion. If she had a keen eye, she might notice the way his right arm kept fidgeting, where Arthur had left a deep cut, and the stiff posture he had adopted, from a sore back.

"Is that what happened?" she asked. "I heard you had been injured…"

"I was," he nodded simply, "but it's part of the training. They honestly look worse than they feel."

"Well…," she trailed off, before offering him a returning nod. "That's good to hear, at least. You shouldn't push yourself _too_ hard."

A genuine smile found its way to the prince's face in response to her concern, and he pulled her into another embrace. "I won't…I'm sorry I made you worry."

"It's alright, Rhaegar," his mother consoled him. A smile had graced her lips at the sight of her son's.

Arthur again lowered his gaze. His mere presence felt like an intrusion on their privacy. It was comforting, however, to see that the young prince had been blessed with at least one nurturing parent. He could not help noting the striking contrast, between Rhaegar's interaction with King Aerys from the night before, the heavy strain in their relationship, and his present interaction with Queen Rhaella, and the open warmth between them. The king and his queen could not be more different.

After allowing a brief moment to pass, he then returned his stare to the Targaryen heir and asked, "Prince Rhaegar?"

"Yes, Ser Arthur?" Rhaegar met the knight's gaze.

"Since you _have_ made it back safely," Arthur began, as the hint of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth, "may I take my leave?"

The prince's violet eyes widened in sudden realization, before he nodded fervently to the knight. "Yes, of course. My apologies for keeping you so late."

"No apology is necessary, My Prince," Arthur assured him, and he proceeded to offer both the prince and the queen a respectful bow of his head. "I will see you in the yard tomorrow morning."

"Please take care, Ser Arthur," Queen Rhaella requested, and in her amethyst eyes he recognized a gentle pleading. "I would like my son returned to me in one piece."

"Of course, Your Grace," the Dornishman replied, and he received a smile for it.

He then turned from the scene and left the Targaryens alone.


	6. Where Wolves Roam

**A/N: We take a shift in location, to Winterfell. We appreciate the support/feedback we've received, and thanks to all who are following along with us. We hope you continue to enjoy it!**

* * *

Back to the Start

Chapter VI

"Where Wolves Roam"

…

\+ LYANNA STARK +

…

"I'm so full! I knew I shouldn't have eaten that last sausage!"

Lyanna Stark's complaint echoed around the courtyard, as she walked along the overarching bridge, both hands held against her stomach with a frown. Glancing to her left, she noticed an amused smile on her older brother's face, and she was tempted to hit him for it. Instead, she settled for a glare.

"Perhaps you should practice more self-control," Ned advised, in the usual calm tones she had grown up so accustomed to hearing.

Lyanna rolled her eyes, "I _do_ have self-control." She placed a defiant hand on her hip, then, to emphasize her annoyance with Ned's comment. "I just _chose_ to eat the sausage. I thought about it beforehand and everything. I reasonably concluded that the best way to stay sated for the rest of the morning would be to eat past my fill at breakfast. I don't want to be hungry when Brandon gets here."

The young Stark girl smiled fondly as thoughts of their oldest brother surfaced. He had been sent to Barrowtown to ward for Lord Dustin several years prior, and no one at Winterfell had seen him since. Their father had decided that Brandon needed to focus more on taking over as Lord of Winterfell someday. Her brother had a spirit almost as wild as her own, and, like her, he often found excuses to avoid his studies. Serving as a ward probably changed that habit, though. She wondered how much he had changed over the years.

Ned was also a ward, to Lord Arryn, but he constantly visited Winterfell, and there was not a single change she could pick out apart from his physical appearance. The Eyrie was either lacking in its influence, or Ned was stubbornly consistent. Knowing her brother, she had already assumed the latter.

"So, you're saying you actually _planned_ to induce this stomach ache on yourself?" the elder Stark was currently asking, sounding skeptical.

"No…," Lyanna hesitated, at a momentary loss for words, and she tapped her hand along the wooden railing beside her in an attempt to force out the shameful words. " _That_ part was unintentional. I…may have forgotten that eating so much can hurt."

She purposefully avoided the judging stare she knew her brother was directing at her, and instead gazed down at the men training in the snow-covered courtyard. He probably thought she was silly for forgetting something so sensible, but she truly did it with the best intentions. Yes, the aroma of the sausage was enticing, and it practically _begged_ to be eaten, but that was not why she forced the entire link down her throat. She did it for Brandon.

"Then, it was a failure to think before you acted," Ned concluded.

Lyanna turned back to him with an indignant huff, "I already _told_ you that I thought it through. It was all planned."

"As I recall," her brother began simply, "you just admitted that it wasn't. You failed to think about the ramifications. Such as a stomach ache."

"That was the _only_ thing I failed to consider," the Stark girl ardently pointed out. "I was too busy thinking about everything else to consider the consequences."

"Unfortunately, the consequences are what you're left with," Ned stated. Although the fond smile had not left his expression, there was a gentle warning in his eyes.

"Well, I will deal with them as they come," Lyanna stated dismissively, hoping the indifference in her tone carried across to her brother.

She was not in the mood to argue about consequences. Not only did it make her feel somewhat foolish, but it also flared up her temper, and she did not want to be upset with Ned during his visit. Besides, Brandon's arrival was cause for celebration, and celebrations could not be enjoyed if one was in a foul mood. At least, that was a lesson Maester Walys was currently trying to teach her. She could see the logic in that mindset, but she personally found herself so wrapped up in the merry festivities that she would forget all about her anger. A successful distraction could change everything about her mood.

Her favorite distraction was riding her white mare, Winter, through the quiet isolation of the Wolfswood. Lyanna was most free in those moments, hiding away from the ever-watchful eyes of her family. She loved them all dearly, but there were occasions when their expectations were suffocating, and she had to get away. She needed time to herself. In those moments, she was also teaching herself how to use a sword, applying the skills she observed from the Master-at-Arms into her private lessons. For those few hours, she could make strides toward her fantasy of becoming the most skilled warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. She would be even more renowned than Visenya Targaryen, a prominent idol of the female Stark's.

However, that was only a dream. She would most likely be married off to some nobleman to secure a political advantage for her father. She desperately desired to rebel against that future, but she knew that nothing would come out of it. The best she could do was complain and follow her wild heart for as long as she still possessed that freedom. Brandon's freedom was the first to be restrained. It was only after their father had secured a successful arrangement with Catelyn Tully of Riverrun that he was summoned back to Winterfell. Although, the servants _did_ talk of an ulterior motive behind Lord Rickard's actions.

A mischievous smile stretched across Lyanna's lips as she recalled the conversation she had overheard in the kitchens earlier that morning. She returned her dark gaze to Ned and nudged him lightly in the side.

"Did you hear about Brandon and Lady Ryswell?"

At her tone, her brother's eyes instantly narrowed, all amusement vanishing from his features. "No," he said dismissively. "And I'm sure you shouldn't have, either."

"But I _did_ ," Lyanna quickly countered, humor accenting her tone. "And that means _you_ heard it, too!"

"No," Ned repeated sternly. "I didn't. Unlike you, I have no interest in listening to the servants' rumors. They look for any excuse to stir up some new scandal."

"Yes, I know," she agreed easily, brushing off his warning in favor of her current amusement. She really wanted to know if the rumors were true, and Ned could provide some insight. "But the scandal started _somewhere_ , didn't it? _Something_ must have happened."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way," he now directed a pointed look down at his sister, "it doesn't concern you, and if you needed to know, you already would."

Lyanna frowned, "That's not true, Ned. Father could be purposefully hiding the truth from us."

"He could," Ned agreed simply. "Because it has nothing to do with you. If something happened, it's between father and Brandon, and no one has any business spreading a private matter any further—and that includes you. And if nothing happened, then you also have no business fueling this rumor any further than it's already spread."

She released another annoyed sigh but nodded her head in agreement. "Fine. I wasn't planning on spreading it, anyway. I just wanted to know."

The younger Stark crossed her arms and pouted. Asking Ned about the rumors was not her brightest idea. He had no interest in that sort of thing. He respected people's privacy too much. She respected it, too, but she also had a gnawing curiosity. Brandon was her brother, and the tale of him dishonoring a maid was no small issue. She was also concerned about him, if father would punish him for his alleged actions.

She wondered if he had feelings for the woman. That could have even been the origin of the rumors, and it would be cruel of their father to marry him off to someone else while he was in love with Lady Ryswell. That would be unfair. However, speculating was not going to get her any closer to the truth. She needed to have an open mind for all possibilities in order to see the truth, and the surest way to reveal it was to confront the man in question.

Lyanna's face lit up with sudden enthusiasm, and she looked to her brother with a determined glint in her eyes. "I'll ask Brandon about it. He can tell me, if he wants."

"Lyanna…," Ned sighed in frustration. "Do you honestly think he'll tell his little sister, if it _is_ true? And if it isn't, you have no place questioning his honor, in the first place. Better to leave it be."

"I'm not questioning our brother's honor," the girl insisted, rolling her eyes. "I'm trying to uncover the truth, which is a different position for me since I thought _you_ were the one who cared about that sort of thing."

"I care about the truth, but I also respect his privacy," the elder Stark returned. "And, you _are_ questioning his honor. If you're questioning this, you're questioning his honor. Don't say you're not."

Lyanna's lips twisted into a pout as she stared up at her brother. She hated when he was right. He made her feel like such a child sometimes, with his stern words, but she knew much more about the world than was expected of a lady her age. Listening to the hushed conversations between the servants or the politics between the adults when they thought she was not paying attention had tremendously expanded her knowledge. That was how she was able to grasp the concept of arranged marriages and the shame of dishonoring so easily, even though she had barely seen her eleventh year.

"Alright," she muttered at last, quiet and under her breath. "I'm questioning it."

"I appreciate you admitting it," he said simply. His voice softening then, he stated, "And maybe our brother has warranted it. But then, maybe he hasn't. It isn't for us to determine."

"I'm not like you, Ned," Lyanna acknowledged with a frustrated shake of her head. "It's not easy for me to accept doing _nothing_. All I want to do is _ask_ him."

Her brother stared at her in silence for a moment, his eyes searching hers, before he pressed his eyes shut and released a quiet exhale. "And I don't suppose there's any way I can talk you out of this, is there?"

The Stark girl beamed, already feeling the satisfying sensation of victory. Her stubbornness was one of her favorite qualities. It served her well in situations similar to this one.

"There's nothing you can say to change my mind."

"So be it," Ned said only, lifting his eyes, but his gaze was now fixed on the courtyard below. "I still think you're wrong to do it, but so be it."

Lyanna giggled at that, and she hooked an arm around Ned's elbow to pull him closer. "You're the best."

She was saying it as a joke, but she _did_ mean it. Although she and Ned had their differences, she had always looked up to him and admired his inherent sense of morality. She sometimes wished she could be calmer and accepting like her older brother, but that contested much of her personality. Especially her fierce and strong-minded spirit. That was a trait she was not willing to sacrifice.

Ned only shook his head at her, but the remnants of a smile had returned to his countenance.

* * *

\+ BENJEN STARK +

…

Loud footfalls bounded across Winterfell's courtyard, the long strides quickly carrying Benjen toward the South Gate to greet his oldest brother. Brandon was expected at any moment, and the young Stark did not want to miss the eagerly anticipated arrival. His father had shared the news of Brandon's homecoming earlier that week, which made concentrating in lessons a challenge. Whenever Maester Walys spoke, Benjen's mind would wander to his brother and fill with endless questions. He was excited to hear about Barrowtown and the adventures he knew Brandon had experienced, but he was mostly excited to see their family reunited.

Several years had past since Brandon left, with Ned doing the same shortly after. He missed his brothers. Lyanna was wonderful company, and her presence helped fill his loneliness, but there was a part of him that longed to be with his brothers as well. He did not mind spending time alone, he often sought it, but he did not even have the option of spending time with them. Brandon was in Barrowtown, and Ned was in the Eyrie. Even though the latter visited often, he still always left home for the mountains.

Benjen would visit them if he could, but he was still too young to travel on his own. He understood why that freedom was restricted. He could come upon a dangerous situation during his travels, and he lacked both the skills and experience to defend himself. There could be injury, even death, and then his family would suffer from his loss. His father wanted to prevent such a tragedy, so Benjen obeyed and never wandered too far.

The youngest Stark finally arrived at the gate's entrance, and the anticipation radiated from his small figure. Benjen's life would change the moment that gate opened. Brandon would come through the archway, and he would be there to stay. That only left one brother's permanent return to be sought after, but he could be content with the one. Brandon was the one who was missing more often anyway.

Ned and Lyanna were already present in front of the South Gate, with their father standing stoically beside them. Benjen briefly considered how deeply the Lord of Winterfell must have missed his heir, before shrugging away the thought and squeezing his way between his siblings. Lyanna was unashamedly annoyed by the forced movement, while Ned wore a calmly amused expression. Benjen smiled fondly at his brother and sister. They were opposites in many ways.

The unmistakable sound of a horse's whinny outside the gate tore Benjen's attention away from his current companions, and he looked to the wooden entrance expectantly. He did not have to wait long before the gates slowly opened, and a short procession passed under the stone archway. A tall, dark-haired male led the company, and despite the years, Benjen immediately recognized him as his long-absent older brother. He had grown into himself and looked every bit the part of a future Northern Lord. Brandon had left Winterfell as a boy, but he had returned as a man.

Benjen silently watched as Brandon descended from his horse and promptly thrust the reins into the hands of a waiting stable boy. The young servant appeared slightly startled by the action, but Brandon dismissed it with a sharp laugh and a comment which Benjen was too far away to overhear. His brother seemed to be in high spirits, which was a good sign. That meant he was just as excited to be home as his siblings were to have him there.

Glancing quickly above him, the youngest Stark took in the reactions of the rest of his family. Lyanna was beaming, radiating with exuberance as she impatiently shuffled her feet. Ned was as serene as always, but he wore a gentle smile on his face. He was also excited. That only left their father. Lord Rickard's countenance was often serious, and this moment was not unusual in that regard, but there was a subtle harshness in his eyes as he gazed at his eldest. Benjen cocked his head as he observed this expression, unsure what to make of it.

His ponderings were soon interrupted, however, when Brandon approached his family with a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"The wandering wolf returns!" he announced, his voice boisterous and carefree. "I see the pack's all here, to greet me."

"You're lucky we're all still here," Lyanna instantly spoke up, placing a hand on her hip as she stared up at her brother. "What took you so long?"

The heir to Winterfell gave the girl a quick onceover, and his expression took a smug turn. "Not sure what _you're_ complaining about, little sister. We made excellent time. In fact, those old fools kept grumbling I was pushing my horse _too_ hard."

The sternness flashed in Lord Rickard's eyes, then. "I would expect you to show more respect toward your elders, Brandon."

When Brandon met their father's gaze, the slightest shift seemed to come over him, but it was so subtle and so fleeting, it was gone before Benjen had the chance to properly discern what it was. The laughter returned to his eyes, and he was still smirking.

"Of course, father," he returned, in the same lighthearted tone as before. "I showed them plenty of respect. You see them?" here, the eldest Stark sibling now gestured to the men behind him, who were currently dismounting their steeds. "I kept pace with them, didn't I?"

"At least you had the decency to consider their pace," the Lord of Winterfell responded dryly, but there was a finality in his tone and a warning in his eyes.

Benjen glanced between his father and Brandon, unable to comprehend the tense situation. They seemed to be sharing a secret message, one that the youngest Stark could not even begin to understand. Whatever it was, he hoped it would be resolved soon and Brandon's homecoming could be celebrated appropriately.

"I did," Brandon agreed easily, before sending a quick wink toward their sister. "Even though it was _still_ too slow for _some_ of you."

Lyanna rolled her eyes at him, dismissing the pointed comment, before her expression returned to the excited one she had worn when their brother had first entered the gates. She quickly stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I missed you too, you ass."

Benjen's eyes widened at his sister's vulgar choice of words.

"Lyanna!" Rickard's sharp voice rang out around the courtyard, causing several servants to pause in their tasks to discreetly observe the Stark gathering. "I do not need to remind you that such language is unacceptable. If you do not watch your words carefully, you will not be permitted at this evening's feast."

The youngest Stark unconsciously shrank away toward Ned, his shock entirely overshadowed by his father's stern words. He watched as a defiant fire burned in his sister's eyes, but her face was directed away from Lord Rickard's unwavering stare. Instead, she loosened her grip around her brother and sensibly remained silent.

"Father's right," Brandon informed the fuming girl, although a lightness had lingered in his tone. "That language is very unbecoming of a lady. I think your tongue's gotten even more wild since I've been away. How are we _ever_ going to find you a suitable husband, at this rate?"

Lyanna's expression flared, and she opened her mouth to argue, but their father cut her off before any words could be spoken.

"You should be more concerned with your own future than that of your sister's," Rickard's eyes narrowed, then, as he directed an unrelenting glare at his eldest son.

Although Brandon's eyes narrowed slightly, as he returned their father's stare, he quickly donned a grin and leaned forward to ruffle Lyanna's dark hair. "I'm always going to be concerned about her," he stated offhandedly. "As an older brother, that's part of my duty." His smile softened, then, as he gestured toward his brothers and added, "Same goes for Ben and Ned."

"Because Benjen and I always warrant so much concern, with all the havoc we wreak," Ned finally spoke, his tone lined with sarcasm. At the mere sound of it, his calm voice seemed to instantly cut through the tension, and Brandon released a wholehearted laugh.

Lyanna's composure also softened and a small smile formed on her lips, as she crossed her arms and looked at Ned. "I can't even imagine you wreaking havoc, brother."

Benjen released a quiet sigh, relieved that his siblings were returning to a comfortable place with each other. He briefly shifted his dark gaze to his father and was comforted to find that a subtle calm had washed over him as well. Their father was always stern, but he was in an exceptionally chilling mood that day. At least Ned's tranquil presence had not lost its effect, in the time he had spent in the Eyrie. He carried an ease about him that often soothed some of the seriousness the Lord of Winterfell carried.

"It'd be a sight, wouldn't it?" Brandon agreed, as he gave Ned a firm clap on the back. "You always have been the best of us."

"And he always will be," Lyanna chimed in, nodding her head definitively. "Has Ned _ever_ broken the rules?"

Benjen silently considered that query, but quickly determined that either Brandon or father could provide the most dependable answers. They were actually alive for Ned's entire life, after all.

"Not that I know of," their older brother replied, but he then proceeded to cross his arms in front of him and afford Ned a suspicious look. "But then, if he ever _did_ break any rules, I'm sure he'd keep pretty quiet about it. How about it, Ned? You causing any trouble under Lord Arryn's watch?"

"That does sound like me, doesn't it?" Ned returned dryly, and Brandon again cracked a smile.

"You really _haven't_ changed at all, have you?" their eldest brother mused. There was a fondness in his eyes. "I'd started to wonder, what with all the things I've heard about that friend you spend so much time with, these days. I thought the Baratheon might have rubbed off on you a little."

"He's certainly tried," Ned said only.

Benjen observed his siblings curiously, glancing between his brothers as he attempted to decipher the meaning behind their words. Robert Baratheon was the heir of Storm's End and Jon Arryn's second ward. Ned often spoke fondly of the man who had become his closest friend. That was the extent of the youngest Stark's knowledge.

"What has he tried to do?" Benjen finally spoke, deciding that his curiosity was harmless, and it was a favorable moment to voice some of his thoughts.

Lyanna let out a snort beside him, and as he turned to her, he saw that she was wearing a wide grin. She leaned in close to her younger brother and tapped him mockingly on the top of his head.

"How are you so ignorant, Ben?" she asked, that smug grin still present on her lips. "I'm only _one_ year older than you, and I know _all_ about Robert Baratheon's questionable actions."

"Unlike you, Benjen doesn't have his ear pressed against the kitchen door, listening eagerly for the servants' next rumor," Ned shot their sister a pointed look.

Lyanna scowled, but she contained her outburst to match her brother's stare. "I do _not_ press my ears against doors, Ned. It's not _my_ fault that I happen to be passing through the kitchens while the servants are talking."

"What? Are you saying it's all such _convenient_ timing?" Brandon again ruffled their sister's hair, a mocking smile in place.

"Yes," she returned shortly, after pushing Brandon's hand off her head and smoothing her hair. "I'm lucky that way."

Brandon scoffed loudly at this statement, while Benjen shook his head. The young Stark had witnessed Lyanna's eavesdropping on several occasions, but he was not about to share her secrets. The decision to tell the truth was hers to make.

" _Right_ ," Brandon remarked, with an emphasized eye roll. "I'm sure luck has _everything_ to do with it."

Lyanna rolled her eyes in turn and released an annoyed exhale. "It _does_ , but why are you suddenly accusing me? Weren't we talking about Ned?"

"We _were_ ," her brother stated. "Now, it looks like we're talking about you."

"Well, stop."

"If you should be upset with anyone about this, it's Ned," Brandon pointed out, with a lazy gesture of his head toward their brother. "He started it."

At the accusation, Ned blinked twice, his expression somewhat incredulous, but it shifted as he arched a single brow at the older Stark. "It seems I'm not the only one who hasn't changed."

Lyanna laughed loudly, her dark eyes brightened by the sudden humor and evident fondness for her siblings, and in no time, Brandon had joined her. Benjen simply smiled. He had been very young when his brother had left home, but the few memories he had of Brandon aligned accordingly with Ned's claim. He was always the loudest, and he was also inclined to partake in childish antics, despite his age.

Benjen was glad that everyone had remained the same. It was easier for the siblings to fall back into comfortable interactions with each other when they remained consistent. Brandon would be boisterous and hot-headed, Ned would be the calm voice of reason, Lyanna would be spirited, and he…he would be the youngest Stark who silently learned from and admired his older siblings.

There would come a day when they would grow up and separate, but within the walls of Winterfell, they were a family. And sometimes, it felt as if no time had passed.

* * *

\+ LYANNA STARK +

…

In the end, Lyanna had successfully kept her behavior in check, and she was allowed to attend the feast. She understood that her father wanted her to be a proper lady, but did she _really_ have to do that already? She had only lived eleven years. She should be allowed to be a child first and experience freedom and adventure, before it was all taken away. For women in Westeros, marriage was a cage, and it was one that they were all doomed to endure. Some found requited love with their husbands, but the majority were not so lucky. No, the majority suffered a loveless marriage, and their only role in life was to produce heirs for the continuation of a House that was not even their own.

Except for the Targaryens.

The royalty of the Seven Kingdoms predominantly married within the same family, and she liked the idea of remaining a Stark, but she found the idea of incestuous relations sickening. She could barely fathom the knowledge that the Targaryens looked to their siblings as potential marriage partners. From what she knew, the king married his own sister at a young age, just like his father before him. It was disturbing to think that the current prince would have followed in their footsteps if he had a sister, but she had heard talk in the kitchens that the queen had difficulty bearing any children at all after her firstborn. Perhaps the tradition of incest would be disrupted for a generation. That was a pleasant thought. The practice should have never existed anyway.

Lyanna wondered who the prince would marry, then, if sisters were not an option. Historically, there were rebellious Targaryens, and perhaps the prince was one of them, but she knew from experience that defiant antics affected very little. Short from running away, her fate was sealed, and the thought of struggling alone, away from her family, was even worse than marrying some faceless lord. She would wed the man her father ultimately chose for her, and that would be the end of it.

A similar method was probably utilized for Targaryens. If they could not marry within their own family, then the second most powerful House would be the obvious choice. Tywin Lannister was the king's Hand, so his daughter made the most sense. She heard that Cersei Lannister was beautiful, despite her young age. If the prince fell in love with Cersei, their story would have a happy ending, but if he was forced to marry her because of his father's decisions, then Lyanna could sympathize. She would not presume to know anything about Prince Rhaegar's life, but it was possible for a person to feel trapped by their position. She _certainly_ did.

Lyanna was raised as the daughter of one of the Great Houses of Westeros, and any outsider would believe she was privileged, which she was, but that also came with responsibilities. If the rumors about Brandon bedding Barbrey Ryswell were true, perhaps he did it as a sign of his freedom. Brandon felt as trapped as she did. Probably more so, now, since his future was already arranged with Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. The servants did not know much about her, but she would be listening for information she could relay to her brother about his future bride.

She shook her head. Her mind had wandered to strange places during her walk. If only her brother's room was closer to the Great Hall. He seemed to enjoy himself during the feast, but Lyanna noticed that something was off about his smile. Brandon had looked troubled ever since he rode through the gates that afternoon, and the Stark girl had a suspicion that it had something to do with their father. He was especially stern with her brother during his arrival, but that had shifted into his usual serious persona during the festivities. Her father's behavior was confusing. Perhaps he was stressed over the wedding arrangements or a current feuding lord…or perhaps the rumors were true, and Rickard Stark was disappointed in his heir.

Whatever the reason, Lyanna was determined to find out. Only then could she fully understand the situation and make her judgements on it. The truth lay behind the familiar wooden door that had finally appeared in her line of sight. She hoped Brandon was not asleep yet. If he was, she would be interrupting his needed rest after his journey. She had not considered that before, but she was already there. He would simply have to deal with it.

Lyanna stared up at the door a moment, her earlier excitement suddenly resurfacing, before lifting a hand and knocking loudly on her oldest brother's chamber door. She heard the distinct sound of a groan, partially muffled behind the wall, but a moment later, the door was pulled open, and Brandon appeared behind it.

"Lyanna?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

From the focused look in his eyes, he did not appear to have been sleeping, although he had already changed out of the leather tunic he had worn to the feast, trading it for a simple shirt, and his hair was somewhat disheveled.

"What are you doing here?"

Lyanna crossed her arms and simply responded, "I wanted to talk to you."

"Is there some reason we couldn't have this talk earlier?" her brother gave a slight roll of his eyes. "We were _just_ talking at dinner."

She mirrored his eye roll. "You can blame Ned for the late hour. He told me to wait."

Now that she thought about it, Ned was right. It would have been inconsiderate to bring up such a sensitive topic earlier. Not only could it potentially ruin the merry mood, but there would have been people listening then. Talking to her brother in private was a good idea.

"Wait for _what_?" Brandon grumbled.

"To _talk_ ," Lyanna emphasized with an annoyed huff. "I already told you that. It's a private conversation, so can you just let me in?"

She would never admit it, but her feet were starting to hurt. She had been walking around all day. Even at the feast, she spent most of it wandering around. She was too short to meet her brother's gaze, but she had a clear view of his room from under his extended arm and there was a comfortable looking chair in the corner.

"Fine," the older Stark finally relented, with an eye roll that was much more exaggerated than the last one, before stepping back and leaving an open space for her to enter.

Lyanna smiled sweetly up at her brother and slipped into the room before he could change his mind. Her feet automatically carried her to the empty chair, and she soon took all pressure off them by hopping into the seat. She leaned back into a more comfortable position, folding her legs under her and swiping a spare blanket off the bed to drape over them.

"Sure, make yourself comfortable," her brother remarked sarcastically, as he crossed the room and then lowered himself to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. He stared at her blankly a moment, before releasing a weighted exhale. "Alright," he pressed. "What's this private talk that just _had_ to wait?"

She blinked. Brandon looked even more stressed now than he did in those subtle glimpses earlier. Suddenly, she felt guilty for thinking poorly of her brother and judging him so hastily. She was already mostly convinced that the rumors were true before she had even stepped into his room. He deserved an open mind…and some consideration.

"Did…," Lyanna hesitated to bring up her inquiry and shook her head. That could wait. Instead, she asked, "Are you alright?"

At her question, there was a slight crease in his brow, but it disappeared as he shook his head and gave her a side smile. " _Really_?" he asked, humor seeping into his tone. "That's what _had_ to wait? I gotta say, Ned gave you some shit advice, little sister."

"For your information, Ned gave me _wonderful_ advice," she retorted, once again crossing her arms. "That was a separate question that I asked out of courtesy and…," her voice drifted as she struggled to admit her worry. After another moment, she finally mumbled, "Because I was a little concerned."

"Not sure what you're concerned about," Brandon shrugged. His eyes shifting to the side, then, he added, "I mean, I guess I might be a little tired, but it's been a long day."

Lyanna's expression softened as she stared at her brother, her brow furrowing slightly. "Is that the only reason?"

"The only reason for _what_?" Brandon focused his gaze back on her, as his eyes narrowed.

"Is that the only reason you're tired?" she quickly clarified. "Because it's been a long day?"

"That, and it's late," he replied simply, and his smile resurfaced.

Lyanna felt her frustration growing at his simple responses. She was trying to be considerate, and he was being purposefully difficult.

"Nevermind," she rolled her eyes.

She decided that putting off her reason for coming to his room any longer would be pointless. He was fine, and she was impatient. Lyanna pointedly met her brother's gaze, as she leaned closer in her seat. "Brandon…have you heard any of the rumors?"

"Uhh…," he glanced around them in an exaggerated motion, before settling a condescending stare on her. " _Yeah_. I hear plenty of rumors. You're going to have to be a _little_ more specific."

Lyanna pursed her lips as her eyes narrowed into a glare, "Don't pretend you don't know. Your alleged misconduct in Barrowtown is all the servants are talking about."

"Really?" Brandon's expression did not change in the slightest. "They can't find anything interesting in their own dull lives, they have to babble on about everybody else's?"

"That's what servants do, Brandon," she responded dryly, rolling her eyes again. "They babble, and other people hear about it."

"Especially if those people are listening for it," her brother stated bluntly.

Lyanna tilted her head slightly as she took in his reaction. There was an obvious shift in his demeanor, and his voice had lost its humorous edge.

"You seem to feel strongly about that."

"Maybe because I _do_ ," the older Stark countered, and a flash of anger suddenly flared up in his words. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he told her, "I've gotten pretty fed up with this horseshit they've been spreading lately, and it's irritating that it made it all the way here, too! I thought I was done listening to it. Guess I should've known better, though. Should've known _you'd_ want to cling to this one."

She scoffed at his pointed comment, crossing her arms as she glared back at him. "What is _that_ supposed to mean? I didn't _choose_ to hear the rumor, brother, and I didn't _choose_ to cling to it, either. I only want to know the truth."

The Stark girl was not interested in thinking poorly of her oldest brother. Once she heard the truth, her thoughts would settle, and she could proceed appropriately. If Brandon was innocent of the rumors, then she would prefer knowing rather than making any further guesses. Her image of him would remain intact, and she would apologize for suspecting him. Actually, even if the rumors _were_ true, she would still regard him the same. He always had a reason.

"Does it even matter what I say?" Brandon questioned, as his dark eyes shifted, to instead focus his glare on the wall. "Your mind's already made up, isn't it? Same as everybody else's."

"No, it isn't," Lyanna responded firmly, her momentary annoyance shifting into a determination to prove him wrong. "The one thing I chose was to be open-minded. If you tell me it's a lie, then I'll believe you. I'll even argue with anyone who tries to tell me differently."

Her brother's stare was still fixed pointedly away from her, but his expression did soften. Somewhat. He still looked troubled.

Brandon must have felt judged the moment he crossed Winterfell's threshold. Probably before that, since the rumors started in Barrowtown. Lyanna's heart weighed with an even heavier guilt than when she first realized she was jumping to conclusions. Now, she desperately hoped the servant babble was false, so she could stand by her brother and prove that she supported him. He was clearly upset, and he needed someone to believe in him.

Finally, as his eyes fell closed for a brief moment, he let out a heavy sigh, and then he had returned his stare to her.

"It isn't true. Nothing happened between me and Barbrey. Well…," here, he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, "maybe not _nothing_ , but not what you've heard."

Lyanna's eyes lit up with uncontained excitement, as her mouth widened into a smile. She _knew_ the rumors had started from somewhere.

After leaning forward in her chair, she whispered emphatically, "So, what _did_ happen?"

Brandon scoffed, but a small smile had returned to his countenance, which made Lyanna happy to see. It must have been hard for him to return home after so long, only to be met with accusations and a soiled reputation. Now that he was smiling again, she knew she had made the right decision. She had patiently waited to approach him with her questions _and_ chose to believe him. She was impressed with the maturity she demonstrated in this situation.

"How did I know you would ask that?" her brother shook his head at her. "Not sure there's too much to tell you, though. I mean… _maybe_ I spent a little more time around her than I should have, but she fell pretty far pretty quickly, and then she started to get kind of obnoxious. I'm still not convinced _she_ wasn't the one who started this rumor, to begin with. She might have even hoped father would force me to marry her, if it reached him."

Lyanna blinked, "Do you really think she would have gone that far?"

She could imagine wanting to be with someone you love, but such drastic lengths seemed unnecessary. If Lady Barbrey _did_ spread the rumor, then she ruined not only Brandon's reputation, but her own as well. The consequences did not seem worth it. Maybe there was a chance that Brandon would have returned her affections, given time, and begged their father to allow the union, but that was no longer a possibility. He was betrothed to Catelyn Tully, and their father was not a man to change his mind.

"I definitely wouldn't put it past her," Brandon replied simply. "You wouldn't either, if you had spent as much time around Barbrey as I had."

"She sounds lovely," Lyanna drawled, shaking her head at a woman she had no desire to meet, and in response, her brother released a hearty laugh.

The younger Stark smiled, once again feeling excited by his return. The scandal was unfortunate, but she was mostly just glad to have him back. Brandon brought his own form of amusement to Winterfell, which she often found humorous, but she was just as likely to call him out for his ridiculous jokes or to argue with him. That was their relationship, though. He enjoyed embarrassing her, and she enjoyed calling him an "ass". She had many fun memories with her oldest brother, and she was excited to make new ones.

While she reminisced, Lyanna's eyes widened as she remembered the first thing she had wanted to do with Brandon when he returned. In the midst of all the drama, she had completely forgotten.

After silently berating herself, Lyanna lifted her chin as she stated proudly, "You missed quite a bit while you were away, brother, but you'll be _amazed_ when you witness how remarkably my horse-riding has improved. Even _Ned_ is jealous of me."

" _Is_ he?" Brandon grinned broadly at her statement. "Then, I'll definitely have to see it. We should go for a ride in the Wolfswood tomorrow—it's been _ages_ since I've done that!" He seemed to be exciting even himself at the prospect.

Lyanna grinned, as the familiar rush she always felt on the back of a horse began to flow through her. She longed to feel the wind on her face again. She was happy that Brandon was enthusiastic about riding with her, but perhaps she could sneak away for a short ride before going to sleep. She could enjoy a blissful moment by herself and then show off to Brandon in the morning.

"Then that's exactly what we'll do."

His eyes narrowing a fraction, Brandon awarded her a knowing look as he asked, "And how does father feel? About all this…improvement?"

Lyanna pursed her lips into a thin line, again fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She was excited to go riding, so she was not in the mood to complain about their father's strict rules. Instead, she shrugged and simply stated, "He doesn't approve, but he hasn't stopped me, either."

"Huh," Brandon mused, with a slow nod of his head. "I guess _that's_ improvement, too."

She nodded in agreement, as she responded dryly, "Yes, at least he's allowing me the freedom to ride my own horse."

"Even if he didn't, I'm sure you would do it anyway," her brother replied, as he leaned forward to ruffle her hair.

Lyanna huffed at his demeaning form of affection, but still managed to smile confidently at his comment. "That's right. Not even father could keep me away from Winter."

"Woe to the man who tries, sister," Brandon said with a wink.

* * *

\+ EDDARD STARK +

…

Wind howled in the distance, tapping softly at the window pane. A gentle snowfall had begun late in the evening's festivities, a mild autumn snow, but it had stopped shortly after it had begun. As the young Stark stared out the window now, however, he noticed the subtle traces of its reemergence. It was difficult to tell for certain, in the dim lighting, but he would have sworn he had seen a stray flake here, and two there. It was fortunate that the snows had waited until after Brandon's arrival in Winterfell. It could have delayed his journey. Or, perhaps it was as in those old stories. A sort of omen. Brandon had brought the snows with him, the howling wind at his back, the winds of rumor and folly surrounding the Stark heir.

" _Did you hear about Brandon and Lady Ryswell?"_

Ned wished his sister had never told him. He hated thinking ill of anyone, but least of all his older brother. Brandon was someone he had always looked up to. As much as he had outwardly dismissed the rumor, and berated his sister for spreading it, and for planning to confront Brandon on the matter even further…the thought itself had never been far from his mind, from the moment Lyanna had posed that one question. It had plagued him the moment Brandon had first ridden through those gates, and their father's reaction had all but confirmed his already growing suspicions.

" _You should be more concerned with your own future than that of your sister's."_

Father could not have been plainer in his meaning. He had been warning Brandon, that the match he had solidified for him, to Lady Catelyn of Riverrun, was fortunate and not easily obtained. On the other hand, it could be all too easily shaken, if Lord Hoster Tully found offense in Brandon's actions. He might see them as an insult against his daughter. This was an outcome which Brandon _should_ be concerned with.

It was not only father's words and behavior which had convinced Ned of the truth behind the rumors he had wished had never reached him. It was his brother's own responses, his obvious attempts to cover up any sign of discomfort or underlying meaning behind their father's words. The reactions had been fleeting and subtle, and Brandon had learned well to hide them, but their presence had still not gone unnoticed. Ned had been watching every move they both made, listened to every word they had said far more intently than he would care to admit. And unlike his sister, he did not need to ask Brandon to know the truth: their brother had dishonored Lady Ryswell.

And yet, another part of him was ashamed to admit his own lack of surprise. He wanted to think more highly of Brandon, but he had long since made a comparison in his head, a comparison between Brandon and the friend he had come to regard as family in his own right. Robert. When he had first befriended the young Baratheon lord, he had noticed it. Away from his family, in those high mountains, Robert had managed to make him feel at home, somehow. Or, at least, as though a piece of home had lingered with him. As though his big brother had taken the luxury of joining him in the Vale.

Now, that being said, Robert and Brandon certainly had their share of differences. But, they also had similar hotheaded, reckless dispositions. And, more importantly, a similar insatiable desire to indulge in all manner of pleasures, which no one could quite seem to talk them out of—no matter _how_ sensible the argument.

It was with this observation, this comparison resting in the forefront of his mind, that he had gained an unexpected understanding of his brother. Not that he agreed with his actions, and not that he disagreed with the repercussions their father had taken, in response—likely, to put a halt to his eldest son's ever wild antics. Merely, he understood the sort of person Brandon was, and where his values lay. They were quite different from his own, but, with age and maturity, perhaps these could be tempered.

The Stark was pulled from the inner workings of his mind when the distinct sent of herbal tea wafted through the air.

He shifted his distant stare from the window, to instead focus on the boy who was now taking a seat across from him at the small wooden table in the kitchen. Apart from him, they were alone, with a pair of flickering candles and a roaring fire in the hearth behind them the only sources of light. His younger brother had finished preparing tea for the two of them, and he was now smiling up at him expectantly.

"Thank you, Benjen," Ned said only, as he offered him a tired smile. Lifting the mug, he then took a slow sip of the steaming beverage, before lowering it with an approving nod. "It's good," he added. "I see you've been improving."

"I wanted to impress you."

Benjen returned the gratitude with a wide smile, before taking a tentative sip from his own cup. He smacked his lips contentedly, a proud glint present in his eyes, and the older Stark felt a familiar fondness rising as he watched his youngest sibling.

"Well done, then," Ned told him. He lifted his cup in a makeshift salute, stating, "Because you've succeeded."

"Thank you," he responded only, the same joyful expression in place.

A moment of calm silence fell between them then, the brothers sipping at their tea, and the elder Stark allowing his little brother's company to anchor him to the present, to a feeling of easy contentment. As the silence progressed, however, Ned watched as Benjen's smile gradually faded, and his eyes fell to the warm mug he held between his hands.

"How long will you be staying this time?"

Ned furrowed his brow at the boy's innocent question. It had been several years, now, since Benjen had last expressed his desire to have his brother remain with them in Winterfell. He generally dealt with the circumstances with quiet acceptance, same as Ned. It was for this very reason that the question caught the older Stark a little off guard.

He quickly shook the feeling away, however, and afforded his brother a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not sure. A fortnight more, perhaps."

"A fortnight…," Benjen seemed to consider the idea silently, because in the next moment he was nodding decisively. Returning his eyes to his brother, he said, "That's not a bad amount. We all get to spend a fortnight together, then."

"Yes," Ned agreed. "We do."

Even as he said it, he felt an all too familiar tug in his chest. It had been so long since they had all been like this, in Winterfell together. Brandon's booming laughter had been much missed, as were these quieter moments with Benjen, and the endless arguments and laughs with Lyanna. In quiet moments of solitude, he often found himself returning to this place in his mind, and he felt a keen longing for his family home. For that matter, he even felt it when he was surrounded by people on all sides. It was never far from him. Even if he would never inherit it, and even if he would one day be forced to move on, to some holdfast, claimed in his brother's name, Winterfell would always be his home. He was a Stark. It was in his blood. This was where he belonged, even if that could never be possible again.

Benjen's thoughts must have followed alongside his, because in that moment he said somberly, "We should enjoy this time we have together. It won't be long now before father sends me to ward for one of the Northern Lords. It might be years until we can all be together like this again."

"It might," Ned replied, with a nod of his head. "You may have some time yet, though, before father sends you away. He may not want to choose a Northern Lord, at all. He has managed to arrange very beneficial relations with both the Vale and, now, the Riverlands. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a mind to continue to build stronger ties, between the North and the other six kingdoms."

Their father always did have a mind for politics. Every move he made was a careful, practiced step, all in the good interest of the North and its future. Maester Walys had been especially helpful, in expanding his sights. Ned had long suspected the only reason Brandon had been sent to Barrowtown at all had been to settle the land disputes that had been arising in the area. Father could not very well expect to build a lasting peace with the other kingdoms if he could not first maintain the peace within his own.

"I don't want to leave the North," his brother spoke candidly then, and Ned noticed a subtle pout forming on his lower lip. He quickly shook his head, though. "But if father decides to send me south, I'll accept it. I guess it doesn't matter where I end up. The North will always be home."

"Yes, it will," Ned stated, and he offered his younger brother a reassuring smile. "Nothing can change that. And no matter where you end up, you'll always return to the North." With a slight tilt of his head, he pointed out, "I always come back, don't I?"

Benjen smiled at that and nodded. It was as though a weight had visibly been lifted from his entire bearing. As he returned to his mug of tea, another thought occurred to his older brother, and Ned's smile shifted somewhat, as he cast his brother a knowing look.

"And if you _do_ end up warding in the south," he began, "father might even allow you to be taken on as a squire."

Knighthood was not a prevalent custom in the North, but in the southern kingdoms, almost every noble House boasted its share of knights. It had been a dream of Benjen's for as long as Ned could remember, and a familiar glint had appeared in the boy's eyes at the sudden reminder.

"Do you think father will really allow that?" Benjen could barely contain his excitement.

"I think it's definitely possible," Ned replied evenly, although he did feel his smile broadening, just a fraction, at the sight of his brother's uplifted mood.

The younger Stark's gaze grew distant, then, as if he was attempting to peer into the future. "I hope that can happen."

Even though Ned could tell the boy was already beginning to get lost in his own daydreams, he was still casting Benjen the same, sincere smile as he told him, "So do I, little brother." Returning his own stare to the window then, where he could now plainly see that the snow had begun falling much harder, he repeated quietly, "So do I."


	7. An Ode of Loyalty

**A/N: Time skip: this chapter is set approximately 6 months after the events of the previous chapters. This is a shorter "subchapter". Thanks again for following along!**

* * *

Back to the Start

Chapter VII

"An Ode of Loyalty"

…

\+ JON CONNINGTON +

…

Bright, blue and beautiful. The very heavens themselves smiled on this glorious day. So many had gathered for this event, the streets were overflowing with the rich, the poor, the old, the young—good and bad alike. It was a time for celebration, and no one was exempt. It was a time for laughter, and dance, and song—all those things _he_ loved most of all.

He…who, even now, outshone all others.

His long, sleek silvery hair was caught in the day's gentle breeze, paler and lovelier than ever before, in its vibrant reflection of the midmorning sun. It stood out in striking contrast, against the black armor he had worn for this momentous occasion, which was adorned in deep red rubies.

 _Always those colors. Always black and red. The colors of the dragon._

The prince looked every bit the part. He knelt, dutifully and respectfully, before Lord Commander Hightower himself, whose pale white sword now rested on the man's right shoulder. Rhaegar Targaryen's dark violet eyes had fallen shut, and his peaceful countenance betrayed nothing. Ever serene… Ever the image of gentle perfection.

Today marked the moment his beloved friend rose to the position of knighthood. The prince had barely reached his seventeenth year, yet already, and well before many of his elders, he was to leave his squiring days behind him. The day had come much sooner than any of them had anticipated, and this was due in no small part to Prince Rhaegar's unshakable willpower. He was determined to become the warrior he believed himself always destined to be. So determined, in fact, that he had devoted countless hours, for many months now, training under the ever harsh, ever watchful eye of _the Sword of the Morning_.

The mere thought gave rise to such a deep, unrelenting revulsion within Jon Connington.

Even as the feeling took root, the young lord's pale eyes sought him out. And, as always, it took no time to spot him. _The Sword_ stood only a few steps from the congregated members of the Kingsguard, those who had not been assigned the coveted task of guarding King Aerys for the day's festivities. Arthur Dayne's head was held high, and even now, even in this peaceful, triumphant moment, his sharp azure eyes were piercing.

They always were. Always assessing, always seeking out the slightest misstep, the slightest chink in your armor, the slightest hint of weakness, always searching for that precise point where he would strike. Of all the men Lord Connington had seen come and go through the walls of King's Landing—knights and thieves, liars and murderers, lords and their sons, foreign dignitaries and their greatest warriors—he had seen none so deadly as this man now standing before him. And worst of all, he had effortlessly maneuvered his way into Prince Rhaegar's good graces.

Day after day they trained together, the prince and _the Sword_ , and day after day the griffin had watched it transpire. He had watched the way the Dayne coaxed the Targaryen in his favor, he had watched Rhaegar's affection for the man grow, and he had watched the way the clever strategist positioned himself as an irreplaceable asset to the prince. So greatly did Prince Rhaegar value what he had to offer him that no one's protests could effectively dissuade him from this path.

And for all those noble purple eyes saw, they did not see who he was. That man was _dangerous_.

They were all dangerous, here.

All the lords and dignitaries who traversed through those halls, through _his_ halls—as the halls of the Red Keep _would_ rightly belong to his silver prince one day—they were dangerous. If fortune should turn, so too would they. The soldiers at his back, the peasants in the streets, the ladies who spoke gentle whisperings of him, who sighed his name in their heights of passion—they, too, were dangerous. And his friends, the men he had shared countless hours and laughs with, those of his station and those in the Kingsguard—they were dangerous, as well.

The Kingsguard put their duty first. They had no choice in the matter. They only swore such loyalties to Prince Rhaegar because he was the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and, one day, they would answer to _him_. They meant to maintain his good favor, so that he might return such courtesies when the time came.

Behind their smiles, Jon Connington could see it. Behind their congratulatory cheers and respectful airs, he could see it. All the bows in the world could not shield it from him. He saw them for what they were. Prince Rhaegar was surrounded by wolves. In the streets, in his castle, those he knew and those who were complete strangers to him—they were ravenous. As relentless as those piercing eyes of Arthur Dayne, the others watched him, too. They were watching, waiting. Waiting for him to slip up, reveal the slightest weakness, so they could take advantage of it. So they could make their attack.

But not him.

Not this heir to Griffin's Roost.

He was the truest friend the Targaryen prince would ever find. Rhaegar was plagued by the beautiful disposition to believe the best in everyone, and while this accepting approach made him many friends, and left him popular among his numerous comrades, it also left him prey to their treacherous advances. And if the prince could not see them for who they were, _he_ could.

Lord Connington had made a decision, the same day his friend had told him of Ser Gerold's approval of his knighthood. He would no longer serve under the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He would serve the man he was resolved to devote his entire life to. He would go to Prince Rhaegar, and he would ask for the honor of being taken as his first squire. Surely, his prince would not refuse him. A proper knight needed a proper squire, and who better than a man he could trust beyond all shadow of a doubt?

He would stand by his side. He would never leave him, or turn his back on him, even if everyone else did. He would protect his silver prince from every threat, both those his friend could see, and those which he would never entertain in his wildest fantasies.

And, perhaps…just perhaps…Rhaegar would see his loyalty. He would understand who Jon Connington was to him—what he was willing to _be_ for him.

And, perhaps…if Jon could make him see that, then perhaps…just perhaps…he could earn his prince's love.


	8. The Queen of Love and Beauty

**A/N: There were ambiguous accounts, whether Rhaella was present at the Tourney of Lannisport, but for the sake of our story and further character development, we decided she should be present. Given the fact that all other tournaments Rhaegar participated in take place** _ **after**_ **the Defiance of Duskendale, this was the only one we could realistically put her in. Anyway, sorry for the long gap in updating. Happy reading!**

* * *

Back to the Start

Chapter VIII

"The Queen of Love and Beauty"

…

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

There were many throughout the Seven Kingdoms who claimed that Lannisport owed its beauty to the ethereal allure of the Sunset Sea. During the day, the calm blue of its waters reflected a blazing sun and the bustling activity from the port town, but as that scorching orb in the sky began its descent, a serene stillness fell over the occupants, whose gazes all turned to behold the mirage of colors as they danced across the water's translucent surface.

When Lord Tywin announced his intentions to hold a tournament in the Westerlands, to honor the birth of the new Targaryen prince, Rhaegar was uncharacteristically eager to attend.

Since receiving his knighthood, there had been several tournaments held across Westeros, and it was his princely duty to attend, but he refused to participate in any of the events. The time he spent training with Ser Arthur had helped him improve as a fighter, but there was nothing his mentor could say that would ever change his aversion to violence. He trained because he had to, and now that he was a knight, he would fight when it was required of him, but he would not partake in useless displays of power or skill. Most people who participated in tournaments did it with the desire to impress, or for some other ulterior motive…and there was always pain. Jousting was painful, and so was the melee. He did not wish to inflict pain on anyone, in any form…but just this once, he had joined the lists. In honor of his brother.

Rhaegar would never forget the day Viserys was born. Standing anxiously outside the door, trying to block out the pained sounds from his mother's labor, had become a routine with all the other births. In the past, his father would have been in the room with the Maesters, standing proudly by his wife's side as he waited for his child to be born. That rare form of comfort had disappeared years before, however, after yet another stillbirth, and his father instead remained in his bedchambers or the Throne Room until the children were born. It was no different with Viserys. The Targaryen Prince had foolishly requested his father's presence during the birth, for his mother's sake, but Aerys had refused and ordered his son to leave his sight, but not before throwing one final comment after him about his plans for a daughter.

Aery II Targaryen's fury was indescribable when Grand Maester Pycelle presented a healthy baby boy before the king. Rhaegar had avoided his father for weeks following the birth of his brother, but he was surprised when he finally caught a glimpse of the man demanding Ser Gerold to assign a member of the Kingsguard to watch his precious son day and night. He was paranoid that someone would attempt to murder his son, just as he suspected had happened with every child prior.

Rhaegar could not help the sympathy he felt for his father in that moment…he was furious that the gods constantly denied him, and the only way he could handle those feelings was by unleashing that rage on others. His father was hurting…he had to be. It was the only reasonable explanation for his erratic behavior. The young prince disagreed with many of his father's actions and his plans for him, but he wished there was something he could do to help him. He knew he was a disappointment…and perhaps that was the reason he could never soothe the fire that eternally burned beneath the king's skin. All he could ever do was create more flames, more anger…

Perhaps Viserys was what was missing from their family. Rhaegar had failed to heal his father, but after seventeen years…there was finally hope. Viserys could change everything. With a sibling…maybe the Targaryen nobility could finally be a family. A proper family.

The prince sighed, collapsing into his nearby chair and running a hand down the length of his face.

From outside his tent, he could hear the deafening cheers of the crowd. It was the last day of the Tourney at Lannisport, and he was in the semi-finals with Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur. He was surprised that he had made it this far in his first tournament, and he secretly wondered if perhaps his opponents had lost to him on purpose…but Ser Barristan insisted on praising his natural skill. In the end, he had no way of knowing why he was in the finals, but the two knights who made it there with him would be honest. They would ride fairly against him. He had no hope of winning, Ser Arthur was obsessed with perfecting his skill in all areas, and Ser Barristan was the greatest jouster he had ever seen, but he was honored to challenge them. He was also slightly excited for the match. He did not enjoy the violent aspects of the sport…but there was a unique thrill that he found in it…and that knowledge terrified him.

Rhaegar frowned, staring absently at his dominant hand as he recalled the feeling of a weapon held within his grasp. All his life he promoted peace, but over the past year, as he had improved in his swordsmanship, so had his overall enjoyment. Not for fighting itself, but for the approval he gained from it. He did not feel like such a disappointment when he knew he could fight on par against certain members of the Kingsguard. It was a terrible reason to enjoy something, but acknowledging that was much easier than admitting that he actually liked fighting. He was constantly conflicted, battling between his peaceful disposition and his newfound thrills. He knew he was talented, and Ser Arthur appealed to his challenging nature, but he was adamantly opposed to fostering those feelings. He did not want to become yet another violent and brutal Targaryen. If he could remain vigilant against letting his dormant emotions take control, then he could ensure a peaceful future.

The sound of his tent flap opening alerted the young prince, and he automatically rose to greet the newcomer, but he was surprised by the person who currently stood before him.

Cersei Lannister…

The last time he had seen her, she was barely old enough to walk. During the early years of his father's reign, he had decided to rule Westeros from the Lannister seat of power, with his Hand close beside him. Rhaegar was only seven at the time, but his father had brought him along. He was excited at the prospect, he loved travelling even at such a young age, and he had never been to the Westerlands. He was inspired by the exciting culture of Lannisport and Casterly Rock, and even more appreciative of the kingdom's beauty. He spent every evening admiring the view of the Sunset Sea from his chambers. His most vivid memories of his father's kindness toward him had occurred during those two years, but after a difficult situation concerning port taxes, the king and his heir returned to King's Landing.

Cersei and Jaime were only a year old at the time, but he clearly recalled feeling a spark of jealousy when he first met them. He was too young to fully comprehend why he was lacking for siblings, and the twins were inseparable. Regardless, Rhaegar had enjoyed their company and that of their mother. She was such a kind, strong woman. He smiled sadly, as he recalled the vibrant presence of Joanna Lannister. The girl standing before him was almost a perfect mirror of her mother, only much younger, and her hair shone with that distinctive Lannister gold. He had not been expecting any visitors, but he was not opposed to meeting with the daughter of a woman he had once greatly respected.

"Cersei Lannister," Rhaegar greeted, with a warm smile and a nod. "It's nice to see you after so many years."

An obvious blush appeared on the girl's cheeks after he spoke, and she emitted a high-pitched giggle in response. "I would say the same to you, My Prince, but unfortunately, I was too young at the time to appreciate your presence in my home."

Rhaegar frowned. He did not want to jump to conclusions, but a sense of dread suddenly washed over him at her tone and noticeably forced laughter.

"Well, it can't be helped," he responded stiffly, a strained change in his demeanor as he attempted to maintain a polite conversation. "You were only a child."

"Yes, I was," Cersei responded simply, a small smile stretching across her features as she stared at him, "but not anymore." She brushed a deliberate hand through her golden locks, as she took a slow step closer. "You'll find that I've grown into quite a woman since then. And you've become…such a handsome man."

The Lannister girl stopped directly in front of him, the green of her eyes shrouded by her long lashes. Rhaegar furrowed his brow, discomforted by the sudden proximity, and moved slightly backwards to create distance between them. What was she doing? He wanted to believe that he was merely misreading the situation and her intentions were entirely innocent, but he was all too familiar with that look in her eyes. It was the same look he used to witness from his father's mistresses.

He desperately hoped this was not a common occurrence for her. He had refused the advances of many desperate women, but there were many men throughout the Seven Kingdoms who would consider themselves lucky to be approached by a beautiful maid, who was none other than Lord Tywin's only daughter. Did she have such little respect for herself? Or was she merely trying to please her father by procuring a relationship with the prince? He knew his father's Hand was an ambitious man, but he would not degrade his daughter's honor for his own interest. Had Cersei come on her own, then? Whatever the reason, her behavior was rather alarming.

Rhaegar cleared his throat before taking yet another step away from the eager occupant of his tent. "I appreciate the compliment, but if there's nothing I can do for you, then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

He did not miss the childish pout she displayed in response to his rejection, but her determination must have overcome that sensation because, in the next moment, she had produced a red satin ribbon from the folds of her gown. The Targaryen heir withheld a sigh.

Of course…that must have been her original intention behind entering his tent, but she wanted to first see if she could win any further affection from him.

"Actually, there _is_ something you can do for me," she spoke with a renewed glint in her eyes, her small hands extending the colored band out to him. "I would be honored if you would wear this favor during your match today."

Rhaegar allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sentiment behind a lady's favor, but he quickly shook his head. He knew what it meant to receive such a token, and he was not about to give her false hope or allow rumors to spread among the nobles.

"I'm sorry, but I can't accept," his tone was gentle, but there was an underlying sternness. He did not want to upset her. Despite his discomfort, she was still Joanna Lannister's child.

"Why not?" Cersei demanded, a fleeting glare present in her emerald irises.

She moved desperately toward him, but he gracefully avoided her advance to stand instead at the entrance of his tent. He lifted the flap open, golden rays of sunlight flowing freely as he calmly waited for her to exit. The Lannister remained immobile, however, the prominent pout returning as she crossed her arms stubbornly. Rhaegar turned his head to shield his eye roll, and in the process, he caught a glimpse of one of his guards standing outside.

After signaling the man and directing him to escort the Lannister child back to her father, the girl released a rather unladylike screech and threw her favor to the ground. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. The guard looked to Rhaegar with wide eyes, but the prince simply repeated his command. Cersei's display was little more than a vivid reminder of her age.

The other man nodded, moving uncertainly toward the sobbing Lannister. He held her gently by the shoulders and led her away from the Targaryen tent.

Rhaegar waited until they were out of sight before releasing a frustrated exhale and dropping the tent's flap with unnecessary force. As he had grown older, the number of uncomfortable situations had also grown. Ambitious women were constantly approaching him, hoping to earn a place by the future king's side. Every time, that same insecurity rose to the surface, and every time, it led him to question his own value over that of the beautiful silver prince. He could usually ignore the longing glances directed his way, but the bolder advances were much more difficult to deal with, and he had not been expecting it from someone so young.

A stream of bright light suddenly interrupted his thoughts, and for a moment, he anxiously wondered if Cersei had escaped his guard, but the flaming red hair was unmistakable. Rhaegar had honestly never been more relieved to see the future Lord of Griffin's Roost. He offered the man a pleasant smile in greeting.

"Rhaegar," Jon gave a returning smile of his own.

Not a moment later, however, a flash of red caught the prince's eyes, and he recognized the girl's discarded favor now held in his friend's outstretched hand.

"Are you to break _all_ of the young ladies' hearts, My Prince?" he asked, a knowing glint in his pale blue eyes.

The Targaryen averted his gaze. The simple favor seemed to reflect every responsibility that came with his position. He knew his friend was attempting to lighten the situation, but there was only truth in his inquiry. He was not permitted to receive their offerings, heartfelt or otherwise, even if it _was_ what he wanted. He was aware that he cared far too much about what everyone thought of him, but it was because of that feeling that he remained mindful of the people and their desires. He had to be careful, so that his name would not be tarnished by rumors. The people would never follow a man they did not trust…

Of course, he _would_ marry, one day, but he knew that decision would never be in his hands. He was actually _preventing_ heartbreak by refusing the ladies' favors.

"You know why I can't accept those, Jon," he muttered sullenly.

The redhead offered his friend a sympathetic look, as he told him, "I know." He proceeded to cross the tent, to the far side, where he lay the red ribbon on a small table. "Still," he asserted, "it's hard to fault them their requests."

"I don't fault them," Rhaegar insisted, and he began assembling his armor on the table before him to distract himself from his inner musings. "I understand the many reasons a lady offers a knight her favor, but they would be spared from so much distress if they didn't even try to give them to me."

"Perhaps," Jon replied, and the next moment, he had returned to the prince's side, to assist him with the armor. "Or perhaps," he added, in a tone possessing all the qualities of forced nonchalance, "they believe the opportunity alone is well worth whatever distress may accompany it."

Rhaegar fell silent. He had never known Jon to be subtle, not even when he tried. He knew what his friend was implying: that _he_ would endure any form of distress if it meant he could remain at the crown prince's side. Even now, as the redhead carefully fastened the black armor around his shoulders, he could not escape his guilt.

On the day of his knighting ceremony, Jon had requested the honor of becoming his first squire, and although the Targaryen was inclined to refuse, he did not want to deny him what he could. His decision to train with Ser Arthur had put an obvious strain on their relationship, and he foolishly believed that accepting the young lord as his squire would ease some of his guilt, but it had the opposite effect. He felt like he was using him more than ever before, as he directed him to deliver messages or help him with his armor.

Jon was distressed…and he willingly asked for it. He chose to avoid Rhaegar's glares when his touch lingered too long, to withstand the emotional outbursts of his treasured friend, and to be constantly disappointed when the prince would inevitably become frustrated with the situation and insist on assembling the rest of the armor by himself.

This day was hardly any different.

It was after Jon's third prolonged graze of his forearm that Rhaegar released an annoyed exhale and pulled his arm away from the man, tightening the straps around it. He refused to meet his friend's gaze, to see the hurt in his eyes, and instead he purposefully strode past him toward the other side of the table, where his sword lay against the wooden framework. He knew it was not necessary to carry a sword while jousting, but Arthur's teachings had resonated with him, especially his preparation methods. The Dayne was prepared for anything, and that was exactly what Rhaegar needed to be. He could not afford to be caught off guard. A single misstep could seal his fate and the fate of countless others.

Shaking away those thoughts, he fastened the sword belt around his hip, as he reminded himself that it was a day for celebration. His brother was not allowed to attend, his father's paranoia did not permit Viserys to even step foot outside of the Red Keep, but he could be positive in his place. When Viserys was old enough, Rhaegar would tell him the story of the tourney, hosted in his honor, and how his older brother rode in the semi-finals with _Ser Barristan the Bold_ and _the Sword of the Morning_. He wanted to create a pleasant memory for the boy, so he could honestly share it with him in the future.

Thoughts of his brother effectively dissipated some of Rhaegar's negativity, a rare grin pulling at the corners of his lips. Thinking about the future had always frightened him, but when it came to Viserys Targaryen, he could feel genuine excitement.

Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed at the state of his friend, and moved to offer him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Jon's downcast expression shifted into a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. The familiar claws of regret threatened to tear away the miniscule sliver of enthusiasm Rhaegar had found, but he pushed himself past it, as he led his companion out of the tent in the hopes that constant movement would keep the dismal feelings buried.

The roaring jubilance of Lannisport's civilians rose in volume as the prince and his squire approached the stands. Rhaegar instinctively wanted to shy away from the attention, years spent in his position had barely eased the discomfort, but he had learned to maintain his composure when the eyes of the kingdom were watching him. He offered a modest wave to the excited audience, and, as his violet eyes swept across the assembly, he felt a wave of relief at the familiar sight of Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan standing with their respective mounts beside the jousting field. After directing Jon to fetch his own stallion, the Targaryen subtly quickened his pace and soon joined the comforting presence of the older knights.

"Prince Rhaegar," Ser Barristan greeted warmly, bowing his head respectfully to his fellow competitor.

"My Prince," Arthur Dayne gave a subtle bow of his own, although there was a playful glint in his piercing gaze. "We heard there was quite a commotion at your tent a few minutes ago. Is everything well?"

Rhaegar withheld the urge to sigh at his inquiry. The memory of Cersei Lannister's advances still troubled him, but he hoped that having her pulled from his tent sent a clear message about his intentions regarding the girl. If his companions had heard of the disturbance, then he could only guess what the rest of Lannisport witnessed.

"Yes, Ser Arthur, all is well," the prince responded simply, though the fear of potential rumors still circulated through his mind. "I had to deny a young lady her favor, that's all."

"That's quite a shame," the knight returned, his mouth upturned in his signature smirk. "She sounded so earnest to give it, too."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed slightly as he turned to meet the Dayne's amused gaze, "What…did you hear, exactly?"

"Not much," Ser Arthur responded, and even as he said it, his tone took on a somewhat reassuring edge. "We happened to see your guard escorting her away, and she looked a bit put out, that's all. When I asked him what happened, he told us she had been causing you some trouble."

"I'm not one for prying, My Prince," Ser Barristan calmly stated, "but if the Hand's daughter is troubling you, there are actions we can take to prevent such future circumstances."

"She wasn't causing me trouble," the Targaryen shook his head. For all the discomfort the Lannister girl had inflicted, it was hardly different from what countless other maidens had tried. "It's always like this."

The encounters were rarely pleasant, but he would not accuse those women of causing trouble. More often than not, they seemed to have honest intentions. He was simply relieved that an upset girl was all that could be interpreted from the guard's actions.

"Yes, I suppose it's hardly the first favor you've had to turn down, since this tournament began, and I doubt it will be the last," the Dayne stated simply. His eyes drifting to the stands, then, he added, "I never did see the sense in the whole tradition. The belief that a mere sentiment and a piece of cloth will do anything to bring a man greater chance at victory. It's complete nonsense."

A small smile pulled at the corner of Rhaegar's lips as he listened to _the Sword of the Morning's_ skepticism. Over the course of many months, the exemplary knight had become rather predictable to the young prince. He valued reason and logic, but even greater than that, the Dornishman measured success by achievements and the hard work leading to it. Believing a simple ribbon tied around the arm brought someone any closer to victory did not fit into Ser Arthur's character.

"Oh, I don't agree," Ser Barristan casually expressed, a distant haze overcoming his brown gaze as he stared across the field. "A lady's favor is more than a piece of cloth. It is a symbol of her affection and wishes for a knight's victory. Such a sentiment has been the inspiration of confidence, chivalry, valor, honor, and, in some instances…a return of that lady's affection. Songs have been written of men braving adversity with a woman's favor as their guide. It is more than a sentiment and more than a cloth, Ser Arthur. The favor represents the virtue any knight should strive to uphold."

"A true knight shouldn't require a piece of cloth to remind him to uphold his own sense of virtue," Ser Arthur returned dryly, his piercing gaze now resting pointedly on the Kingsguard. "I understand that it's a symbol, but beyond that, it holds very little meaning, and it certainly does nothing to protect you."

"It can't physically protect you, no," Ser Barristan conceded, his own unperturbed stare shifting to meet the other knight's. " _That_ is nothing more than superstition. However, I believe there is a special form of protection that comes from that symbol, the reminder of _why_ a true knight should uphold his virtue."

The Targaryen Prince crossed his arms as he took in their opposing opinions. Both knights came from valid perspectives, with their individual dispositions represented. Rhaegar had never considered the meaning of a favor beyond its political position in his life, but if circumstances were different and he could freely accept a heartfelt token of affection…then he would most likely wear the sentimental piece of cloth with pride.

"The importance of the favor rests in its sentiment," Rhaegar stated lowly, his eyes on the ground as he considered the potential importance of such a trinket. Ser Arthur was right, it did not hold much value on its own, but there was something entirely beautiful about the simplicity of its symbolism. "In the proper context, favors serve as a reminder of everything waiting for a knight while he is away on the battlefield. It is a silent promise between the lady and him, that he would come back to personally deliver the favor to her. If I were in a fight and knew there was someone waiting for me to return home…that would be an even greater reason to emerge victorious. Proper motivation can go a long way in a fight, wouldn't you say, Ser Arthur?"

"It holds its merit," the knight allowed. "Morale can certainly play a factor, in turning the tide of battle, and if that specific reminder can reinvigorate a person's will to fight on, then I suppose it does serve some purpose to him. Even still, morale can only do so much, and it can be so easily swayed. It isn't the sort of thing you should rely on."

"Not entirely, but it serves its purpose," the Targaryen heir countered, lifting his purple gaze to the blue of the Dornishman. "Morale would be useless without the skill to survive in a battle, but what good is skill if there isn't a strong conviction behind it? They are both necessary for victory, in my opinion. Relying too heavily on one could be detrimental, but so could ignoring it."

"I wouldn't necessarily say that ignoring morale would be _detrimental_ , but failing to rely on your skill, and on the proper dedication toward improving it is _always_ a costly move," Ser Arthur asserted. "Morale and motivation may have their purpose, but they're certainly not of equal necessity as skill in bringing you victory."

"Unfortunately, we have no way of proving the validity of either argument," Ser Barristan declared, an excited lilt in his voice accompanying the smile he wore. "We three shall be competing, and not one of us has the glory of bearing a lady's favor. We shall win or lose based on our own prowess."

An easy smile wound its way to the corner of the Dornishman's mouth, and he again brought his piercing eyes to rest on the White Cloak. "Yes, it seems we shall. Although," he added, as his gaze again shifted to the prince, "it does seem an even greater shame, now, that Cersei Lannister's favor had to be rejected. I would have loved to prove my point."

Rhaegar's violet gaze narrowed as he cast an exasperated glare at the knight. "I have no doubt of it, but I am not interested in accepting a young lady's affections merely to prove a point."

"My Prince," Ser Barristan calmly interjected, placing a comforting hand on the Targaryen's shoulder. "Surely, Ser Arthur didn't intend for any harm in his statement. Like you, he prioritizes a woman's dignity over his ego. It is virtuous to be so considerate."

 _Virtuous_ …

The glare fell from the crown prince's face as he again lowered his eyes to the vibrant, green terrain at his feet. Ser Barristan was too kind. His denial of Cersei Lannister had nothing to do with virtue. He denied her out of discomfort and a suffocating fear of consequences. A virtuous man would not be led by fear as he so often was. The elderly knight _was_ correct in his assessment of Ser Arthur's character, however. The man had made a harmless joke, as was his custom, and Rhaegar had reacted with sensitivity…as was _his_ custom.

He sighed, "You are right, of course, Ser Barristan." Returning his attention to the Dayne beside him then, he offered the man a modest nod, "I am sorry for behaving immaturely. I acted without thinking."

"There's no harm done," Ser Arthur assured him, his easy smile still in place. "So long as you understand I wasn't at all serious, now that you _are_ thinking."

"I understand," Rhaegar responded simply.

"Good," the Dornish knight returned. "Now, be sure to _keep_ thinking. We wouldn't want such a slip up to affect your performance in the tourney, would we, Rhaegar?"

The Targaryen prince rolled his eyes at the lighthearted jab, but refrained from rising to the challenge in Ser Arthur's words. The temporary silence was soon broken by the penetrating sound of trumpets across the field and the increased passion of the audience. King Aerys II had finally made his way to the tourney field, his ever-dutiful wife at his side. The king's shrill gaze scanned the crowd, and, for a fleeting moment, they locked with the violet of his eldest son's. Rhaegar tried to calm the amplified beating in his chest, his anxiety rising to the surface once more. He broke away from his father's harsh stare and instead looked to his mother, the warm amethyst easing his nerves and reminding him of the little brother waiting for him in King's Landing.

The relief finally returned to his countenance, then, Prince Rhaegar offered the Dornish knight a small smirk, "Good luck, Ser Arthur. I look forward to riding against you in the finals."

"That's quite the confident assertion, My Prince," Ser Arthur noted with a returning smirk of his own, before he cast a quick, sidelong glance toward the prince's competitor. "You best take care, Ser Barristan."

With that, _the Sword of the Morning_ mounted his gray stallion and rode out to meet his opponent.

* * *

\+ JAIME LANNISTER +

…

The excitement was palpable. The heir to Casterly Rock watched with unabashed glee as the semi-finals began, and the contesting knights took up their positions. On one side of the field, the gray and orange of House Marbrand swayed in the breeze as the proud Lord Damon sat upon his speckled mount. Damon Marbrand was a fierce warrior who had knocked down every opponent with fortitude and years of battle-hardened experience. Jaime had been cheering for him every round of the tournament, but his current competitor was going to change all of that.

Ser Arthur Dayne, _the Sword of the Morning_ , the man rumored to be the greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms, who wielded the legendary _Dawn_ , had proven time and again that age was not everything to a knight. Arthur Dayne was a symbol of conviction, of resolve, of honor. He was the embodiment of confidence as he rode opposite the Lord of Ashemark, emblazoned in his noble House's purple and silver.

Jaime Lannister was overjoyed when he learned of his father's intentions to host a tourney in their home. _The Sword of the Morning_ had been in King's Landing for well over a year, and Jaime, unfortunately, had never had the great privilege of witnessing the famed knight up close. He initially bothered his father for details, but he had soon been forced to think better of it. Tywin Lannister was not a man with the patience for his son's exuberance. So instead, the young heir had turned to his siblings. Even if they could not provide him with the information he desperately desired, he could still emit his enthusiasm.

Cersei, however, proved to be less than supportive of his interests. She preferred sharing her fantasies about the Dragon Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. His sister was convinced the man would one day become her husband, but Jaime openly disapproved of the match. He knew she had gone to deliver her favor to him before the joust, and when she returned in tears, the young Lannister's negative impression was strengthened. The crown prince would not make a suitable partner for his gentle sister.

Tyrion, on the other hand, was almost as invested in the tales of the knights as Jaime himself. His little brother was perceived as the shame of the family, and, as a result, he was rarely allowed to venture out in public. Tywin Lannister refused to have his image further soiled by the sight of his shame. Not that Jaime agreed with this mindset. He spent more time with his brother than any other member of their family, and the boy always responded to Jaime's visits with great enthusiasm. He knew that the moment they returned to Casterly Rock, Tyrion would come waddling out of his room and head straight toward his beloved big brother, eager to hear the details of the extravagant tourney.

A flourish of color returned Jaime's wandering attention back to the field and the center of excitement. The Targaryen flag had been lifted, signaling the beginning of the match.

His green eyes instantly locked onto the younger knight, his confident gait controlling his steel-toned mount with ease as the beast charged forward. As the gap between the two knights quickly diminished, Jaime's excitement increased. The scene unfolded before his eyes in a rush of movement. It was difficult for his brain to keep up. He saw Arthur Dayne's purple-clad lance directed at Lord Marbrand one moment, but by the next, the proud lord was tumbling from his steed. His side landed hard on the dirt below.

Cheers erupted around the young Lannister. He enthusiastically joined in, throwing his fist into the air as he proclaimed the spectacular victory of Arthur Dayne.

The man was much more than any of the descriptions he had heard. The Dornish knight had won against his opponent in the semi-finals after only breaking a single lance. That was a record worthy of praise, even if the young knight had not already been fated to triumph in the tourney. While _Ser Barristan the Bold_ was another exceptional competitor in the event, and a man Jaime had admired for many years, he knew in his gut that _the Sword of the Morning_ would emerge as the victor. If Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur were the knights who advanced to the finals, then it would truly be a clash regaled in songs for years to come.

Similar to the previous matches, Arthur Dayne removed his helmet and acknowledged his fallen opponent with a respectful dip of his head. As the victor steered his mount off the field, nodding in passing to the still jubilant crowd, Lord Marbrand's attendants helped him to his feet. Jaime felt a smug smirk develop as he watched the display. Addam Marbrand had bet that his father would win the match, but the golden-haired Lannister had favored the Dornish knight. He would have to hunt his friend down after the tournament to collect his winnings.

After the field was cleared, one of the following competitors emerged from his respective side of the stands. The chorus of cheers resounded louder than before when the rubies of the Dragon Prince's armor reflected the vibrant rays of the afternoon sun. Jaime stared pointedly at the man a moment, before he was interrupted by a wistful sigh beside him. Removing his attention from the field, the Lannister instead rested his green gaze on Cersei, who was clasping her hands together in front of her chest with a bright smile lighting up her already elegant complexion. His sister's beauty was without equal in the Seven Kingdoms and even across the sea in Essos. Any man who failed to recognize the endless qualities that his sister possessed was truly a fool.

Jaime leaned in closer, then, as he gestured dismissively to the mounted prince, "Cersei, don't you think you're wasting your time on a man like that?"

The smile instantly vanished from his sister's face, as she turned to him with her chin raised and a determined gleam in her eyes. "My darling brother, it is never a waste of time if I get what I want in the end."

A returning question was already forming on the Lannister heir's lips when a flash of white compelled his attention back to the jousting field. His concerns for his sister momentarily forgotten, Jaime's young eyes rested on that acclaimed member of the Kingsguard, his entire countenance shrouded in the distinctive white of his honorary Brotherhood. Ser Barristan Selmy, a man who had brazenly participated in his first jousting tournament at the age of ten, was a symbol of both refinement and audacity. He currently reigned with a considerably high number of wins from jousting tournaments over the years. His opponent, Rhaegar Targaryen, had never even participated in a single tourney, and he possessed significantly less experience than _Barristan the Bold_. Not that experience always mattered, such as it was hardly a factor for Arthur Dayne, but in _this_ instance, Ser Barristan held an indisputable advantage.

After a single moment passed, the red emblem of the Targaryens was again raised from the center of the field. The Kingsguard's majestic white steed galloped at a quickening pace, loose speckles of dirt swarming around the animal's hooves. The Targaryen's black stallion matched this speed, Prince Rhaegar's red and ebony lance lowered at his opponent. The two knights met in the middle. Their lances shattered, the thick plates of armor absorbing the blunt force of the blows. Both knights continued their run onto the opposite end of the field, unscathed from the first altercation.

Jaime fidgeted in his seat, his anticipation urging his body closer to the railing, but he quickly pulled himself back to fully take in the scene before him. The riders again charged down the field, only to once more proceed to the other side with broken lances and additional scratches on their armor. After emerging from another round unscathed, the stands quieted as the people's anticipation was amplified. Ser Barristan's resilience was expected for the seasoned knight, but Prince Rhaegar was exceeding the expectations the Lannister previously held.

Jaime's concentrated gaze was unyielding. He was engrossed in the match, no longer resolutely assured of Ser Barristan's imminent victory. On the fourth tilt, the knights followed the familiar routine across the field, but the result swiftly differed from the previous rounds. Ser Barristan's white mount continued without his rider as the noble member of the Kingsguard was thrust from the saddle. Shards of wood scattered around the knight as he descended, his own lance still intact, before his back collided firmly with the ground.

A brief pause followed the fall, before Barristan Selmy pushed himself to his feet, and deafening cheers simultaneously erupted around the stands. The prince pulled off his helmet, then, his silver hair cascading down his back, and he beamed at the crowd surrounding him. He bowed in the direction of their House's reserved section of the stands, which also hosted the king and queen for the occasion. Cersei leapt to her feet beside her brother, her smile restored as she clapped eagerly. Jaime blinked once, then nodded approvingly as he began to clap alongside her. Prince Rhaegar had beaten _Barristan the Bold_. Jaime had not expected that outcome, but he was nevertheless impressed by it. Now, the finals would consist of Arthur Dayne and Rhaegar Targaryen. Could the Dragon Prince beat _the Sword of the Morning_ as well?

If Rhaegar could emerge as the champion of the Tourney of Lannisport, then perhaps Jaime would be willing to reconsider his previous opposition to the man taking his sister's hand.

* * *

\+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

…

Deep azure eyes were set determinedly on the scene, analyzing each movement, each subtle shift—the slightest flex of the flagbearer's hands, the slightest tilt of his opponent's helm, the slightest variation in the black steed's hooves. He could not afford to overlook anything. The smallest detail could prove to be his greatest ally, or the reason for his very downfall. In his focus, the deafening crowd was all but silenced.

Arthur could feel his grip tightening on his horse's reins.

The prince had been excited. It was quite possible that he had been more excited than the Dornishman had ever actually seen him. He had been smiling proudly when he removed his helmet, and his violet eyes had immediately sought out the royal seat. Had he been seeking recognition there? From his father? Or, perhaps, it was to his mother that he had looked, remembering his infant brother at home, in whose honor this tournament was being held. Perhaps it was this very knowledge that was spurring him on. After all, defeating _Barristan the Bold_ in a joust was no small feat.

The Dornish knight had been watching the match closely. Both men had been riding with equal fervor, and, more importantly, there had been no restraint on Ser Barristan's part. The White Cloak had faced the prince fairly, he had ridden his best, and he had fallen. Rhaegar had beaten him, in his own right. And he had every reason to feel proud of this accomplishment. For that matter, Arthur found himself feeling considerably proud of him for it, as well. It was a pleasant change, to see the young Targaryen enjoying himself, to witness him fight without feeling a need to hold a part of himself back, to watch him take pride in a well-earned victory.

If Rhaegar managed to best him in their match, as well, there was little Arthur could imagine would bring him greater pride, as his mentor.

 _If_ he managed to best him…

Even as this thought crossed his mind, the Dayne could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His piercing eyes were still fixed pointedly on his ebony-clad opponent. The crown prince certainly _looked_ the part of a victor. His elaborate helm, his black armor, with that ruby encrusted dragon… Their prince had quite a flare for the dramatics. His morale was high. He was allowing his motivation to claim victory in honor of his brother to drive him forward, to knock down every opponent who dared cross his path. He was determined to win.

The knight's smile took a somewhat ironic turn, then, as he reflected on their previous debate. On the issue of morale versus skill.

Perhaps Arthur _would_ have the chance to prove his point, after all.

The slightest flicker of color did not escape his notice, and in the next instant, the Targaryen symbol was billowing in the wind. The flagbearer let it fall, and the crowd's voices were all intermingled in a single, thunderous cry. The final match had begun.

The same moment the banner fell, Arthur's stallion soared into action. Rhaegar advanced opposite him. He was in motion barely a second after the Dornishman, and within the next moment, they were charging full speed toward one another. As they drew closer, Arthur noted the slightest shift Rhaegar made, his arm tilting only a fraction, but, if gone unnoticed, it could have proven detrimental. He was learning well. The Dayne repositioned accordingly, but it cost him a clean stroke, and both men broke lances against their opponent's armor.

As he brought his steed to an immediate turn at the end of the field, Arthur could feel a smile overtaking his countenance. His chest was throbbing, but he could feel his entire body reinvigorated in his surmounting excitement. Rhaegar had a knack for this. Moreover, he was fighting at his full potential, leaving nothing wanting. He _was_ superior to Ser Barristan with a lance, and he was making good use of that talent. Facing off against an opponent, of _this_ skill…it was exhilarating.

Jon Connington was prompt in delivering a new lance to the crown prince, far quicker than Arthur's own attending squire, but it made little difference. By the time the Targaryen colors fell again, the Dornish knight was equipped and fully prepared, having already assessed the younger man's weak points in their prior clash. When he held his lance, he slouched, his stance slightly off center, in favor of his right side. From what Arthur had witnessed, it was likely it had been caused during Rhaegar's third collision with Ser Barristan. The young prince had allowed himself to take one too many hits from the seasoned knight. He had failed to plan ahead, he had failed to take his next adversary into account, and it was a mistake which Arthur would ensure cost him.

The knight took his aim. His lance was set to collide with the prince's shining, dragon emblazoned chest. However, within the last second, he changed direction, and Rhaegar was too slow to react. His lance shattered against the man's shoulder, lurching him sideward in his saddle at an unpleasant angle. The prince held fast, however, his grip tight on his dark horse's reins, and Arthur once again found himself smiling as he came to the end of the field.

His swift maneuver had left him exposed to more weight of the prince's lance than he would have preferred, but he had anticipated the blow and determined it was worth permitting. Landing this pivotal strike was imperative for his next attack. It had been entirely possible, for Rhaegar to have fallen in this tilt, but he was pleased to see his opponent had succeeded in maintaining his balance. If he could anticipate Arthur's next move, if he could accurately determine where he intended to land his next blow, it would be possible for him to counter it. He could make the Dornishman's audacious, split-second technique, and the injury he had suffered therein, work to _his_ advantage, instead.

This scenario was entirely probable, and Arthur could feel his excitement reaching a new pinnacle in anticipation of the prince's next move. This third tilt would determine the match.

His mount charged forward one final time, and the distance between them closed swiftly. _The Sword of the Morning_ took his aim, and his piercing azure gaze immediately rested on the Targaryen's stance. He noted the lance's position. Within that same moment, he knew it was decided. The match was his.

His lance shattered against Rhaegar's chest, and, for the first time since the tournament had begun, the force of the blow pushed the young prince from his black stallion.

A weighted silence had fallen over the crowd, but the instant the man's back collided into the ground, a chorus of cheers and screams erupted from the stands, as the spectators shot to their feet. The arena was bursting with the deafening sound of applause. It was impossibly louder than when the match had first begun.

Arthur dismounted his horse, leaving the loyal creature in the hands of his squire, along with the remnants of his weapon, and then lifted his hand to remove his helmet. He acknowledged the crowd with an easy smile and a single, purposeful bow of his head, which he directed toward the Targaryen nobility, before crossing the length of the field. He came to a stop beside the fallen prince.

His mouth tilting upward in one corner, the Dayne fixed a smirk on the younger knight. "My Prince," he addressed him in a lighthearted tone, as he extended his hand toward him, "will there _ever_ come a day when a match between us doesn't end with you lying in the dirt?"

Rhaegar scoffed, his eyelashes fluttering in a barely restrained eyeroll, but his mouth eased into a self-deprecating smile. He accepted the Dornishman's hand, and he winced as the knight pulled him to his feet. He pressed his hand against his chest, drawing several labored breaths.

"You rode well," Arthur told him, as he awarded the Targaryen heir a firm clap on the shoulder.

"I was riding against _you_ ," the prince returned, the smile on his face shifting into a small smirk. "I would never hear the end of it if I didn't perform at my best."

"That's true," the Dornish knight allowed. "It would have called for quite an extensive lecture. It _is_ nice to hear how simple it's become, to motivate you."

Rhaegar chuckled at that, a weightless edge to his demeanor as he turned to gaze fondly at the hoard of people surrounding them. "My desire to avoid your extensive lectures is a surprisingly incredible motivator, Ser Arthur."

"It's had the intended effect, then," Arthur stated, as he observed the man beside him.

There was such an intriguing air that always seemed to overtake the dragon prince, when he was standing in front of a crowd. As frequently as he avoided it, there was an unmistakable sense of enjoyment that he derived from the whole endeavor. It enlivened him, in such a way that little else could. The love and happiness of his people played a fundamental role. Generally, he denied himself the luxury of indulging it, but today…no, today, it seemed, he was allowing himself the freedom to accept it for what it was.

With an easy smile, the Dayne averted his stare to the crowd as well, before musing, "Probably better not to keep them waiting any longer. I do have a queen to crown, after all."

Yet another renowned tradition. Which, incidentally, had also fallen to hold very little meaning beyond that of a theatrical display of a man's affections toward his deserving lady. Not that such a declaration was relevant for _him_ , but it was custom and, indeed, _expected_ of the victor.

Rhaegar's eyes had returned to him once more, and his gaze had suddenly grown intent. It seemed the prince was rather curious to see who the aspiring Kingsguard might crown.

After lingering one final moment to award his fellow contestant a departing smile, Arthur then strode forward and accepted the crown of roses which were now being presented to him. Customarily, the champion would bestow the flowers to his lady from horseback, with a grand flourish of his lance, but, having already dismounted, the Dornish knight simply walked to the stands and then proceeded to climb the steps. The dense crowd cleared a path for him, although their cheering had not diminished in the slightest. It followed him until he halted in his steps when he came to the royal seat.

He fell to one knee, his head lowered in a respectful bow to the Targaryen nobility. King Aerys offered him a simple gesture of his spidery hand, indicating he was free to speak.

"If you will permit me, Your Grace," he addressed the man, who even now was staring down at him with a hungry look in his burning violet eyes. "I award the title _Queen of Love and Beauty_ …," Arthur's piercing gaze shifted, then, to rest pointedly on the graceful countenance of Queen Rhaella, and an easy smile returned to his expression, "to the only lady here whom I can rightfully name as My Queen."

 _The Sword of the Morning_ then lifted the crown of roses and offered them to the Targaryen queen. Her purple eyes widened, only a fraction, and though it was barely discernible, a subtle flush had risen to her cheeks. Beside her, King Aerys wore a smile, as a pleased glint flashed in his eyes. The queen stared at the knight, apparently in a momentary state of shock, but she nevertheless reached a hand forward and accepted the crown that was presented. A chorus of cheers rang out around them, and the crowd began chanting her name.

As Queen Rhaella laid the flowers to rest on her lap, Arthur noticed a smile pulling on the corner of her lips.

* * *

\+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

…

When Rhaegar first stepped onto the field for the closing feast, he was momentarily dazed by the lively atmosphere surrounding him. Everywhere he looked, he was met with the image of pure, uninhibited joy. Brilliant golden flames perched on wooden stalks lined the cobbled walkways and harmonized with the moon's silver reflection over the calming waters of the sea. A gentle salt breeze wafted through the air, drifting along the food-laden tables to caress the spirited dancers in the center of the field. A vibrant tune flowed from the musician's corner of the venue as various entertainers revealed their talents before the crowd.

The current performer was a man emitting a contained inferno from his mouth, creating the appearance of a dragon in human form. As the knighted prince clapped for the talented artist, his violet gaze connected with his father's through the fiery blaze between them. When he had triumphed in his match against Ser Barristan, Rhaegar had sought out the fondness he knew would be reflected in his mother's eyes, but he was stunned to find a genuine smile on Aerys Targaryen's face as well. Only in the faintest memories of his childhood had his father ever looked at him with something apart from disdain, but now, for the first time in his life, he had made the man proud. He could not control the grin that had spread across his lips then as he was filled with unimaginable happiness. As he looked upon his father now, he could detect a hint of that same satisfaction. Perhaps there was still hope, and he could be a source of joy rather than immense shame.

Rhaegar felt another smile forming as he nodded familiarly to his father. When the king returned his gesture, the young Targaryen redirected his stare before his feelings could overwhelm him. The positive impression he had elicited from his father would be destroyed if he openly expressed his torrent of emotions. He instead found the profile of his mother, her gentle amethysts calmly surveying the festivities as the crown of blue roses rested comfortably on top of her platinum tresses.

He was initially surprised when Ser Arthur bestowed the champion's token on his mother, but the moment he considered it, she was the only choice Arthur _would_ make. Not only was she a choice free of any social implications, but the Dornish knight also enjoyed irony, and he must have enjoyed the idea of crowning the real queen as the Queen of Love and Beauty. It was an opportunity the man would never pass up, but this time, the prince happened to agree with his decision. There was no woman in the Seven Kingdoms more deserving of that title than his mother. She embodied the true grace of a queen, and she was made even more beautiful by the love that continued to fill her despite the misfortunes she endured.

As the melody changed to a slower pace, the Targaryen heir maneuvered around the dancing couples until he stood before the woman who cherished him from the moment he first drew breath. Rhaegar smiled gently, a playful gleam in his eyes, as he bowed slightly and extended a hand to her. "Mother, if you are not otherwise engaged, would you honor me with your first dance?"

An effortless smile overtook the queen's countenance, and she accepted her son's hand without hesitation. "Of course, Rhaegar," she told him. "Nothing would make me happier."

Rhaegar's smile widened, before he led her toward the congregation of dancers, opting for an opening closer to the musicians. The enchanting hums of the instruments echoed throughout his entire being, and he allowed it to guide his movements as he swayed slowly with his beloved mother. His gaze wandered across her face, the contented delight on her features causing his own to soften. Her warming presence had never failed to comfort him when he needed it, but he often wondered if he provided that same feeling in return.

He observed the floral crown adorning her head and felt his mouth slip into a small frown as he recalled the story she had once told him, of a young hedge knight who had awarded her the same favor in a tournament many years ago, before she was forced to marry her brother. If his grandfather had never heard of the prophecy that had sealed her fate, if she had been allowed to choose, would there be more smiles etched into her fair complexion? Rhaella hid her pain well, but there was a weariness in her eyes that had slowly grown more prominent over the years.

"What is it?" he heard her ask, and he realized her brow was now knitted in worry.

Rhaegar glanced down, berating himself for causing her any concern, before he returned his gaze to her and sighed. "I was just wondering…if you're happy."

"Happy?" Rhaella asked, and the look in her amethyst stare shifted from worry to confusion. However, with a subtle shake of her head, she was again wearing the same, warm smile, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm happy right now."

 _Right now…_

The frown on the prince's face deepened at the implication of her words. She was happy, but that feeling was a luxury that could not be applied to her life beyond this moment. She was married to a man who mistreated her at every opportunity and restricted her freedom. The only joy in her life was her children, but their effect was also limited.

Rhaegar lifted his hand and absently traced an icy blue petal on her laurel, his thoughts returning once more to his mother's former admirer. "Do you think you would have been happier…if you had been allowed to marry Ser Bonifer?"

"Is _that_ where your mind has been?" the woman released a sigh, but her smile remained. As she stared up at her son, she mused, "I suppose I should have known. There's no point in thinking about that, though, is there? Ser Bonifer…he's in the past. And besides," here, she lifted her free hand and rested it tenderly against Rhaegar's cheek, "if I _had_ married Ser Bonifer, I could never have had you, my sweet son. Or your brother. Little Viserys…." Her smile grew fonder. "We would never have today. You would have never ridden so beautifully. We would never have this moment, and then I couldn't possibly be happy right now."

"But…," Rhaegar sighed, stopping himself before he fell into an impulsive argument.

His negative opinion of himself and doubts about his place in his mother's life were not going to sway her. He had already brought his concerns to her many times in the past, that he was not enough to keep her happy, but each time she responded in the same manner: with a gentle smile and her assurance that she would never trade him for a hypothetical happier life away from her brother. He had never once heard his mother complain about her circumstances. Instead, she embraced every glimmer of light.

The Targaryen prince hung his head, shame overwhelming him as he again recognized his mother's strength. She had experienced far worse than he ever would, and yet _he_ was the one constantly cursing his existence. He was such a horrible son.

Lifting his violet gaze, he met her concerned stare and offered a subtle upturning of his lips. "…You're right, mother. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she returned easily. As she tightened her hold against his face, she offered her son a meaningful look from those soft, amethyst eyes. "You mean the world to me, Rhaegar. I wouldn't trade you away for anything in it."

Rhaegar's brow furrowed, as contradicting feelings of gratitude and worthlessness threatened to overwhelm him. He held his silent gaze another moment, focusing on maintaining composure and blocking his mind from the full implication of her words, but ultimately his façade crumbled. With a weighted exhale, he wrapped his arms around his mother's shoulders and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"You mean the world to me, too," he muttered softly, his tone thick with emotion. "I would have never made it this far without you."

As the queen rested her arms gently around her son, she whispered to him, "Neither would I."

She was his strength…just as he had always been hers.

Rhaegar's form trembled, his hands shaking in their position around her as he curled them into fists in an attempt to ground himself. He was losing all sense of control in this vulnerable moment with his mother, but he could not afford to break down in front of a crowd. The carefully constructed veil would drop, and the gathered lords and ladies would see _him_ , the shameful child who constantly hid behind the face of the beautiful silver prince. Their mockery would echo with humiliation in his ears, but none would cut as deep as his father's. For the first time in his life, he had finally earned a semblance of recognition from the man. He could not allow a single moment of weakness to destroy that.

With a final laborious sigh, the crown prince eased his hold on his mother and pulled away. As the song came to an end, he managed to force a small smile and dip his head to place a soft kiss on her hand. "Thank you for the dance, mother."

As Rhaegar straightened, he avoided meeting her gaze, but his attention was immediately shifted to a gentle caress on his shoulder.

"My Prince."

He heard the distinct inflection of his fiery friend behind him. When the Targaryen turned slightly to acknowledge the other man's presence, Jon afforded him a meaningful look from those pale blue irises.

"They're ready for you."

Rhaegar blinked, confused, before the familiar sight of his emblazoned harp came into focus, already positioned in front of the royal table. Even when preparations had still been underway for the tourney, Tywin Lannister had requested that he perform a song during the closing festivities. At the time, he had agreed without hesitation, but now as he stood there, gazing at his favorite string instrument, the image of his father would not leave his mind. It did not matter that he regained his composure. His father's pleasure would disappear with the reminder that his oldest son was a soft-hearted musician.

After offering a silent nod to Jon in response, he squeezed his mother's hand a final time, listened to her soft words of encouragement, before he released her and moved away from the comfort of her presence. The crowd parted easily as he followed his squire, their anticipation evident in their movements. All eyes were on him as he stepped toward the performance area, the face of the smiling prince etched upon his countenance. He sincerely hoped his forced delight with the moment could fool the people circling him. He had no desire to ruin their pleasant evening with his debilitating emotions.

Rhaegar felt his hands shaking again, but he ignored the tension he felt as he gripped the side of the instrument and lowered himself onto the stool. The position he had come to adore, that of a simple artist, offered a wave of serenity that eased his anxiety. The fingers of his left hand gently stroked the silver dragon that adorned the back of the harp, while those on his right fell into place alongside the strings.

After another moment of reluctance, he finally lifted his gaze to King Aerys. His yearning for approval would be concealed by the unspoken tradition to await the king's permission before playing. With a somewhat dramatized eyeroll, even as a smile remained on the man's lips, his father did not hesitate to give an easy flourish of his hand. The humored glint in his violet eyes, could he actually be…amused?

Rhaegar had seen his father amused at his expense, but never before had it looked so good-natured. There was no malice or bitterness twisting the expression. In fact…the look was almost fond.

A weightless joy surged within the young prince, a wide and uninhibited smile pulling at his lips, as he let himself indulge in the moment. Was this a sign that his complicated relationship with his father would finally change for the better? Could the days of ridicule and disappointment be in the past?

With a nod and the uplifting feelings spurning him forward, Prince Rhaegar plucked the first string. Everything else was silent as he played, the world slipping away as his eyes closed and the melancholy tones of the harp surrounded him. Through music, he could express those buried parts of himself without fear, but he felt especially courageous that evening as the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms congregated beside the Sunset Sea to hear a melody composed by the prince who was loved by his father.

When the harmony of the final notes faded into the stillness of the night, Rhaegar returned to the present, where the brief silence was broken by a cacophony of applause. Opening his violet eyes, he accepted the praise with a modest bow and a genuine smile. As he swept his gaze across the row of beaming faces before him, he felt a continuation of that same light sensation that was only interrupted when he noticed Cersei Lannister shuffling closer. The girl had apparently been standing very close to him while he was playing, that same enamored glint in her eyes that he saw on the face of every other maiden, but there was also a hint of possessiveness lurking beneath her emerald depths.

"You played beautifully, My Prince!" Cersei cried out over the commotion, the crimson skirt of her dress brushing along the side of the harp as she smiled down at him.

Rhaegar rose from his seat, purposefully leaving the instrument between them as he stood and nodded stiffly to the Lannister heiress. "Thank you for your praise, My Lady."

"My daughter speaks the truth," the steady and deep tones of Tywin Lannister suddenly reverberated through the crowd.

Arching a brow, Rhaegar turned and observed that the Lord of Casterly Rock had been standing behind him with his son. Jaime bore an air of pride that mirrored his father's, but while the Lannister heir's carried transparent admiration, Tywin's gaze held a subtle respect and fondness.

The prince nodded courteously at the pair. "I am glad you enjoyed it, Lord Tywin. I was hoping I wouldn't disappoint the man who requested I play this evening."

"And you didn't," the older man returned easily, as he lifted a hand and placed it on his son's shoulder. "I was informing Jaime how much you've improved since last I heard you play. I explained how practice and dedication carry a man further than raw, unnurtured talent."

Rhaegar barely withheld an amused smile when he noticed that Jaime was rolling his eyes at his father's thinly veiled admonishment. He had not seen the young Lannister in some time, but the infant he had beheld all those years ago was brimming with the same air of defiance.

"Father, I don't see how that's relevant right now. Can't you just get to the point and ask him?"

"Yes, father. _Please_?" Cersei's impatient voice joined in with her twin's.

The Targaryen furrowed his brow as he directed questioning eyes back to their father. "Is there something else you would request of me, Lord Tywin?"

Tywin's jaw clenched imperceptibly as he awarded Jaime a pointed look before meeting the curious gaze of the prince. "Yes. It is a request for both you and your father, King Aerys."

As he spoke, all eyes shifted to the king, who seemed to be waiting expectantly for his Hand to continue.

"There are two requests I will make this evening, Your Grace," Tywin Lannister's eyes followed the eyes of the crowd, resting squarely on the king. As he spoke, a practiced calm lined every word. "The first, that House Lannister would be honored if the crown would permit my son, Jaime, to squire under Prince Rhaegar. The Tourney at Lannisport was hosted in the name of the newly born Prince Viserys, but I think we can all agree that no contestant was more surprising or more impressive than our crown prince. He proceeded to the final match in his very first tournament. A rare feat, indeed. Prince Rhaegar possesses great skill, which he executed with an agile ferocity. It should come as no surprise that he inherited these traits from his father. They are qualities that I wish for my own son to adopt, and I can think of no better knight to educate him."

Rhaegar frowned, an uncomfortable constriction settling in his chest. He had dreamed of hearing someone state that he was like his father, but at the same time, he did not want to be regarded as a vicious person. He had never desired to _become_ the man. Aerys was cruel and unyielding in his injustice. There were not many traits in the king that he admired.

He also had to question the genuine nature of Lord Tywin's praise. Whenever he wanted something, he wove flattery with reason to create a stronger appeal in his proposal. If he only wished to recommend Jaime as a squire, then the additional adulation was unnecessary. All it took was one look at his father to recognize that he was not the least opposed to this notion. King Aerys was leaning forward in his chair, hands curled around the armrest, with a glimmer of intrigue burning in his violet irises. It must be Tywin's second request that required such a vain mood of the king, and that thought alone filled the prince with a sense of dread.

When the Lannister fell silent, allowing a weighted pause, Aerys narrowed his eyes a fraction and gave an eager gesture for him to proceed. "And what of your second request?"

"The queen has successfully honored His Grace with a second son," the Hand stated, his careful nonchalance betraying nothing of his intent. "Ample cause for celebration, to be sure. But to keep the noble dynasty strong, the next generation _must_ begin. It is past time the king's heir wed and produce an heir of his _own_." When Tywin granted another pause, he gestured to his daughter. As if on cue, Cersei raised her chin and gracefully swept across the grass at her feet to boldly take her place at Rhaegar's side. "In light of this fact, I would offer my own daughter, Cersei. She is young and fertile, capable of bearing many grandsons and granddaughters for the royal family. A perfect fit for the prince's bride. This union will join the two greatest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms: the royal House of Targaryen with the proud House of Lannister."

The moment Cersei moved to stand beside his son, a drastic shift ensnared King Aerys. His fingers tightened in their grip on the chair, his nails shaking under the intense pressure. The enthusiastic and attentive posture from before had melted away into a rigid ferocity, his eyes flickering to the Lannister girl in a deep glare. When Lord Tywin's final statement reached the king's ears, the remaining flames of interest had flared into smoldering embers of fury and insult. A quavering insanity had overcome him.

Rhaegar tensed, in preparation of the ensuing outrage that would come pouring from his father's mouth.

" _Tywin_ ," Aerys breathed his name, as his hands clenched and unclenched in their grip on the arms of his chair. "Lord…Tywin." An eerie calm washed over his face then, as the king lifted himself to his feet. His hard stare never once left his Hand. "House Lannister is a most faithful House. Faithful to the crown. Faithful to your _king_. And _you_ , Tywin…you are a good and valuable _servant_."

At the word, Tywin's practiced countenance twitched.

"Yet a _servant_ nonetheless!" the Targaryen king spat the next words, the calm vanishing as quickly as it had come. The fury in his eyes now trembled in his voice. "Your gold and your honors, your position that _I_ bestowed on you has made you forgetful. But do not forget yourself in _my_ presence! The son of a _servant_ has no place beside the son of a _king_ , and your daughter has no place in my hall! No _servant's_ daughter is fit to marry a prince of _royal_ blood!"

The weight of King Aery's insult bore down upon the once merry crowd. Those standing closest to the Lannisters and the royal family shrunk away, as if in fear that the Targaryen's wrath might turn on them.

Cersei Lannister's lower lip quivered, moisture filling her green eyes, but the young blonde held back the tears and instead tilted her chin higher. She presented her best attempt at maintaining a dignified air, in spite of her apparent displeasure.

Contrasting his sister's sorrow, Jaime's jade irises initially looked upon the Targaryen king with contempt. However, he quickly seemed to remember his situation and lowered his glare to the ground. He must have also been disappointed by the loss, but the offence to his family's pride cut deeper.

Neither Jaime nor Cersei's reactions could compare to the wound that Lord Tywin had been dealt. His entire bearing had stiffened. A muscle in his face contorted as he clenched his jaw tightly, head tilting lower as his piercing gaze met Aerys'. A challenge was present in those eyes—one that he dared not act on.

The tense atmosphere proved too much for the prince's delicate disposition. Rhaegar hung his head, utterly ashamed at the turn of events. This was his fault.

"I'm sickened by the very notion of tainting my family's pure line by muddling it with gilded pets," the king's voice rang over the hushed crowd. "I've lost my appetite."

As King Aerys II stormed away from the table, the servants were ordered to remove the trays of food and drink. There would be no feast.


End file.
